


so suffer all the children and walk away a saviour

by gottabewhatomorrowneeds



Series: i’ll give you all the nails you need [6]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Character Analysis, Child Death, Gen, I like that that’s a tag, Moral Ambiguity, Mysticism, Nonbinary Party Poison (Danger Days), Nonbinary Show Pony (Danger Days), Party Poison (Danger Days) Is A Dick, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, The Girl (Danger Days) is Trans, Trans Kobra Kid (Danger Days), Underage Drinking, dr. d is not really a good person, mainly about jet & poison, party poison is like the manic pixie dream girl for the entire desert, the first 10000 words are just me giving u lore and jet Star trauma, theres a Reason behind their behaviour but. asshole., theres like. a shit ton of death so be warned., they dont happen often
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gottabewhatomorrowneeds/pseuds/gottabewhatomorrowneeds
Summary: Jet Star knows now that there’s no such things as gods or benevolent deities. What kind god would let him watch so many of his friends and family die?There’s no such thing as messiahs or saints or heroes. The world is full of grey, of people who either try to become good or actively try to be evil. There’s no such thing as heroes, as saviours.Party Poison is proof of that.
Series: i’ll give you all the nails you need [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622683
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	so suffer all the children and walk away a saviour

**Author's Note:**

> if there is anything i ought to tag, let me know!

Jet Star was born during the height of the Helium Wars, a series of international fights whose original causes remain erased from history. His mothers deserted the fight after having been drafted into a war they didn’t believe in. It was during a time before the medication was forced, before people were drugged into submission. At the time, there was only propaganda to fuel the destructive flames of BLi’s furious fires, and words can be more potent than any pill.

Still, his mothers fled from the war, blood staining their fingers as they whispered prayers to be absolved. They deserted the military, hoping to never have to kill or harm another person ever again.

The Helium Wars would continue for a long, long time, until eventually the Analog Wars, a series of civil uprisings within the fractured North America, would take its place.

By then, people who no longer wanted to be with BLi, who was worming its way into power as people became more and more depressed over the situation until they became almost unified with the government, had deserted the city that used to be Los Angeles and fled into the surrounding desert.

A community was sprung, a community of rebels and castaways and societal hazards and artists. Los Angeles became Battery City, and soon BLi became the ultimate authority once the rebels decided to flee. 

Jet Star was born in the desert during the midst of this, years after his parents abandoned the bloody money wars, but a bit before the Analog Wars sprung up. He didn’t realize how important these events were, that these events were going to shape his entire world view and that they’d shape his mothers’, too.

He grows up as one of those scarce children in the desert, right alongside his older sister. As more and more people flee to the desert, the less and less children tend to be seen. Often, they don’t make it out of the city- their parents are captured or killed, and they’re taken back into the city for re-education. Or, they make it out, but they end up dying quietly from heatstroke or starvation or dehydration, or other slow, painful deaths.

Children born in the desert often have a hard time surviving. People haven’t yet adapted to living in the desert, haven’t learned how to perform proper medical procedures or the like. Children come into this world and die quickly, from poor sanitation or from choking on sand or other reasons.

But one of his mothers was a medic. So Jet Star and his sister managed to survive. 

His mamas made sure to instil vital lessons in his brain. They did their damnedest to get him to understand some core values. They desperately tried to teach him to be kind, to be generous, to help those in need, to be all those honorable and virtuous things.

Not only did they teach him and his sister morals, but they also taught him religion.

His Mama was Catholic; his Mom Jewish. Their religions were dying and incomplete as the wars tried to tear away the faiths they held so dear to their heart, and before their passing they tried to share with him as much of their crumbling ideologies as they could. He was raised with lullabies of heroes and messiahs and the end of days, raised with knowledge of atonement and guilt for sins. 

They fed him as many stories as they could recall. His mom whispered to him stories from a book she had long ago since memorized, reciting word for word in an old language she tried to teach him. His mama taught him prayers for as many saints as she could recall, singing praises for them as she explained each of their stories.

They desperately tried to save their religions, desperately tried to offer the only thing they had anymore to their children. It was the only knowledge they could give, the only birthday gifts and Christmas and Hanukkah offerings. Stories they hold dear to their hearts.

His sister never became particularly enthused over religion. She listened to their stories, thought of them as something neat, but not much to ponder over. She didn’t believe much in a god, didn’t believe much in anything.

Their parents never tried to shove the religions on to them, never forced them into believing in things they do not believe in. It’s your choice, they always sang, it’s always your choice. You don’t have to believe in anything that you don’t believe in.

Jet Star latches on to every word they whisper. He’s absolutely raptured with the ideas they sing, of martyrs and messiahs, of a benevolent God who is acutely aware of mankind’s actions and a God who must be feared. He listens to every word, and fiercely protects the rosary and the Star of David necklace he was given when he was seven.

He doesn’t know what to believe in, because he’s only seven years old, but every word that pours out of his mothers’ mouths seems to be the only truth he needs.

-

Just after Jet Star turns eight, an event occurs that completely transforms every and all of his beliefs.

He’s been living with his mothers for eight years. They’ve found themselves a comfortable niche to live in, a community, and countless peers. They live in a small village tucked in a corner that’s far from Battery City, which seems like a faraway story than a looming threat.

His mothers tried as hard as they could to both protect him from the horrors of BLi and instil their maliciousness, but Jet Star won’t understand the true vile nature of the company until it’s tendrils manage to reach his safe haven.

It’s just another day. His mothers are traveling to the marketplace up north east. The Analog Wars are quieting down, though they won’t disappear completely until Jet turns ten. His sister is eleven and has ambitions and ideas of a life rebelling against the company that forced her mothers to flee.

The word ‘killjoy’ hasn’t been coined just yet, but that’s exactly what she wants to be.

Their mothers disprove of violence but agree with rebellion. They want to keep a pacifist mindset, they want a nonviolent revolution. They’ve seen the horrors of war and are terrified that their children may one day see the bodies of the innocent and have the blood of the slain staining their sleeves. They know war, and they refuse to let their children become a part of the bloodshed.

They’re listening to the radio- Dr. Death Defying isn’t there yet. He isn’t the soul of the desert, the lulling voice that you fear to hear but desperate to learn from, terrified to hear the names of your friends on his list of dead but needing to keep up with current events. His voice means nothing, yet- he’s still out there in the last thrums of the Analog Wars, fighting right beside Tommy Chow Mein, still watching blood spill in a fruitless war.

It’s a weather report. Jet Star isn’t paying much attention- he’s staring out the window, daydreaming. He dreams of revolution just like his sister, though in a less bloody way. He just wants to help.

The sound of an engine catches everyone’s attention. Jet Star cranes his neck and sees from the rear view window a parade of white vans. Dust billows as the clunky shapes kick up sand in their wake.

It’s quickly apparent that they’re gaining speed, and that they’re chasing after them. Their car isn’t made for speed, isn’t made to have the speedometer threaten to break as they begin to slide past a hundred miles per hour. 

A shot rings out. The buzzing of electricity cracks in the dry, desert air. A moment later, and the rear view window shatters. 

“Get down!” His mom screams as his mama frantically pulls out a weapon Jet Star’s only seen her use once: a ray gun.

She leans out of the passenger window, cocks her gun, and begins to fire. His mama had been the medic, his mom the tired soldier. His mama has shot guns before, but she was never particularly good at it. 

The loudest sound Jet Star’s ever heard pops across the empty desert. The car begins to skid, and his mom is frantically trying to gain back control. A back tire had been blown out, pierced by a well timed shot.

The car lurches to the side, the high speed and the rocky terrain acting as factors that lead to the car skidding out against the ground. His sister clamps a hand over his mouth just as he’s about to scream, and the two nearly get whiplash as the car skidded.

Eventually, it stops moving. His mom spins in her seat, and there’s an expression he’s never seen before on her face. Her eyes are filled with fire, and he knows it’s a passion to protect.

“Stay here,” she whispers. His mama rubs her head, blood dripping down her face from slamming against the roof. Glass has shattered and is cutting into Jet Star’s side, but he tries to keep his whimpers soft. “Keep quiet. Hide. And no matter what, stay inside.”

His mama ruffles his hair. She kisses both their cheeks. His mom follows suit. “Remember, we love you both. Stay quiet.”

They slip out of the car.

Jet Star and his sister scramble to peer out the window. They watch as their mothers emerge into the firefight, and a barrage of lasers descend upon them. Jet Star’s crying, terrified- he’s never seen a gun fight before. Drac patrols usually don’t wander this far south.

His sister holds him in her arms, her eyes solely trained on their mothers. They watch as the two dance about the battlefield, watch as they dodge bullet after bullet, as they take down the men in white. Jet Star hates this feeling, hates this awful, gut wrenching emotion of being helpless. He’s desperate to jump out of the car and run into the heat of the battle, but his sister is cradling him tight, as if she knows he’ll jump right out of her arms.

Jet Star watches. The Dracs are slowly being picked off. 

A laser manages to hit his mama. Suddenly, his mama goes down. 

She doesn’t get back up.

His sister's breath hitches at the sight. Jet Star’s eight years old- he knows what death is. He’s heard of some of his mothers’ friends die in a hail of gunfire. He’s heard of people dying from sickness. He’s hunted iguanas and helped his mothers take down a couple of birds. He knows what death is.

He nearly begins to scream, his tears spilling, gushing down his face. His sister keeps her hand over his mouth, tightens her hold on him, and tries to keep him calm. “Keep quiet,” she whispers.

Another shot sounds out. It’s echo is something that haunts Jet Star to this day, the sound of electricity piercing the still air, the thunderous echo it made as it left the chamber of the gun.

His mom falls to the ground next to their mama.

Jet Star wriggles in her hold. He needs to see them, he needs to help them. Maybe they can be saved- he knows how to stitch up a wound. He can bandage them, he can kiss it better just like they’ve done for him thousands of times after roughhousing too hard with some of the older kids. He needs to go.

“You can’t help.” His sister's voice is hot against his neck. “Please, baby. Please, just stay still.”

Her voice cracks. Her whisper threatens to dissolve into tears. Jet Star crumbles against her, trying to keep his sobs as quiet as he can. 

Footsteps crunch closer and closer. They fold themselves as much as they can, trying to hide in the car, ducking out of sight. They don’t see a figure, but they do hear a voice call out, “I guess those two are the only ones. The car’s empty.”

“Alright. We’ll let the clean up crew come and get the bodies. Let’s go.”

They remain silent. The Scarecrows flew from the scene, and the two remained, pressed in the back of the car, holding their breath. They wait until the thrums of the engines die, until the vans become specks among the horizons, until the only sound for miles is the cawing of crows.

His sister slowly peels herself off. “I’m going to…” She trails off, her voice thick. “I’m going to check on our moms, okay?”

“I’m coming with.”

“No.” Her voice was final and broke no arguments. Jet Star didn’t care.

“Yes, I am.”

They stare at each other, a battle of wits. His sister only wants to protect him, but he’s already watched them die. There’s no going back, there’s no undoing that level of trauma. The desert sun begins to set, and the coloured sky creates a blood red background fitting for the scene of a battlefield.

“Okay.” Her voice breaks. “Okay, let’s go.”

They slip out of the car and slip into the desert. They quietly make their way towards the group of bodies, almost top-toeing across the sand. It feels disrespectful to all these dead souls to make too much of a racket.

They find their mothers with ease, the only speck of colour amongst the sea of white.

His mom had wrapped an arm around his mama. The two were holding hands, their hair splayed in each other’s faces. Both their eyes were closed, and Jet Star could almost imagine the prayers on both their lips, trying to ignore the ruby that dyed both their mouths. 

His sister chokes out a quiet sob before moving to snatch the ray gun out of their mom’s hand. She carefully picks up the discarded gun beside their mama. It’s a tense moment as she holds those guns and stares down at their mothers, bodies wrapped tight against each other in their final act of defiance against BLi. 

Love.

His sister stumbles to the left and begins to throw up. Jet Star squeezes his eyes shut, wishing this was just another dream.

-

His sister does her best to raise him. She’s just eleven, just trying to do her best. But they’re both just kids, and that event changes them both.

His sister becomes more and more radical. She believes the only way to destroy BLi is to fight fire with fire- waging a war right back is the only way to end this war, this cycle of bloodshed.

She begins to become more and more involved in a movement within the desert. There’s no name for it yet, no name for the revolution that will continue to burn long after the original whispers of rebellion have died.

She burns, and is desperate to burn those down with her.

She does her best, she really does. 

They manage to find a home out in zone four, an abandoned gas station that’s long since been run dry of any gas or valuables. They make a home in that little corner of the desert, desperately trying to fend for themselves as they scrounge around for good and supplies.

When he’s ten years old, and his sister is thirteen, the Analog Wars come to an end. They don’t care about it at the time, at least Jet Star doesn’t. He just listens to the radio in disinterest while his sister cooks a couple of birds they managed to catch over a fire. He listens to the crackle of static and flame.

It’s obvious that the transmission is from BLi. “The rebellious faction has finally surrendered as of March 22nd, 2002. BLi has captured all of the leaders, and will be dealing with these treasonous mutineers soon. Keep listening for an update on the rebels upcoming execution. The war has been won!”

His sister snarls. “The war isn’t done yet.”

Jet Star draws pictures in the sand, not listening to his sister launch into another rant. And certainly, unaware of how her words were true.

-

Jet Star doesn’t pray as much as he used to. The rosary he’d been given has grown cold, and he keeps his necklace behind his shirt. The idea of a god has begun to lose its shine, especially when that god let him watch both his parents die.

Still, he feels a bit of guilt for not caring to the religions his parents so desperately offered to him. He recites stories to himself before bed every night, tasting the names of heroes and villains before he tries to close his eyes. His sister has given up on a god completely by the time she turns fourteen, a complete atheist. She doesn’t scorn his religious practices, but otherwise doesn’t seem to think much of them.

Jet Star doesn’t pray much until the day she dies.

-

It’s a crisp day in November. Jet’s twelfth birthday was coming up in December, and he was excited to think about what he was going to be getting. His sister loved him dearly, but more and more, it felt as if she was beginning to love the idea of a revolution more than him.

Five disillusioned, ex-veterans of both the Analog Wars and the Helium Wars team up. It’s a group of two women, two men, and one other person. They coin the gang name Killjoys, becoming the very original group who sung siren songs of rebellion to the masses.

They scream and cry for freedom. They launch missions against BLi, desperate to end their reign. The idea of becoming a killjoy latches on to the hearts of many, a term that catches fire amongst the desert. They haven’t died just yet, but their core name will become synonymous with rebels. 

His sister is becoming attached to the idea of joining them. She’s desperate to prove herself, to destroy BLi, to exact revenge against the people who stole her parents away from her.

Jet Star and her are at the market, a small desert dweller trade swap. Her sister was probably searching for a gift to him to secretly hide until his birthday as they searched for some medical supplies. It’s a peaceful day.

There’s a shouting match at the edge of the market. It seems to be a gang dispute, which has been increasing in frequency. Although the Killjoys try to preach unity, a few factions have been spitting in their faces while the rest of the desert agrees.

They don’t pay much mind until shots begin to go off.

Laser scorched wood, and fires are set. People begin to clear out, knowing better than to linger at a fight that doesn’t pertain to them. People are quickly taking down their little stands, and the radio that was just hailing the success of the Killjoys was cut short.

His sister seems to hesitate. They should be leaving, he knows this, and yet she’s standing there, thinking. Finally, she turns to him, a glimmer in her eyes.

“Go back to the truck.” It was a beaten down white pick up truck she managed to win in a gamble with a couple of drunk men. It took her a while to learn to drive it, but at fifteen, she’s practically a master. “I’m going to go break up this fight. I’ll meet you there, but stay in the car.”

The last time he was told to stay in the car, he had watched his mothers die right in front of him. “Hey, sis, it’s not your fight. Let’s just leave.”

“If we want to have a chance of sticking up against BLi,” she begins, her expression firm. “Then we must all work together. Don’t worry, kid. I’ll be right back. I promise.”

She pats his shoulders and begins to run off in the direction of the firefight. After a couple moments, Jet Star hesitantly follows. He’s not going to just leave her, not when she’s his own flesh and blood.

She’s already managed to find the battle, and it is a battle. There’s already a couple of corpses tanning in the bright sun. The stench of smoke pervades amongst the dry air. She’s waving her gun, yelling at the people.

No one pays her any mind and she clambers right into the heart of the fight. Jet Star clutches his necklace and whispers a prayer, whispers and begs to be heard as she clambers across the battlefield, picking her way across the corpses. She’s still waving her gun, trying to get their attention.

“Boss! Look out!” Someone calls. 

A man with bright orange hair sees his sister. There’s a case of mistaken identity, Jet Star learns a bit later. He sees this girl, moving from the direction of the gang he was shooting at, moving right towards him with her gun.

He shoots.

The shot pierced her skull.

Jet Star screams. This time, this time he’s allowed to scream. This time, there’s nothing stopping him from rushing into the battle, from screaming and sobbing the whole way over. He doesn’t have to be silent and still.

He screams until he reaches her body. The firefight is still going strong- no one cares about a snot nosed kid. No one cares about the corpses laying in the aftermath of a battle. The fight will continue until there’s no man standing, because that’s exactly how turf wars work.

He reaches her body and collapses next to it. Her eyes are open, unlike his mothers, staring at the sky with an empty expression. Her gun is still clutched in her hand, and Jet Star sobs on top of her already cold body. Blood oozes down her face, and there’s so many burns he almost can’t tell it’s her. Her head’s been charred, her skin sizzling. Her brains have spilled out onto the floor, and Jet Star keeps crying as he throws up a bit at the sight.

He sits there beside her, crying. It’s a stupid death, it’s a stupid way to die. She never got to become the killjoy she so desperately desired to be, never became a real force of opposition against BLi. She got killed by her own peers because they were too consumed in fighting each other to realise she was just a kid trying to stop an adult’s war.

The sounds of laser fire dies off, quietly and slowly. Jet Star scans his surroundings and finds them devoid of life. The orange haired man was laying on the ground not too far off, his face smouldering and smoke pouring from his chest. Even if Jet Star wanted revenge, he couldn’t even have it.

Jet Star screams, and there’s no one there to listen.

-

Jet Star’s haunted by those experiences. He watched his mothers die by the hands of the very men they thought they had escaped from. He watched his sister perish by the gun of someone who was supposed to be an ally. He watched the evil men destroy his parents and he watched his peers destroy themself.

Very, very quickly he learns that there is no black and white in this world. Not all desert people are good people. You can’t trust anyone.

So Jet Star remains alone for a few months, trying to scavenge for himself. He just doesn’t know what to do with himself, now that his entire family’s dead, ghosted, dusted, gone.

He just tries to survive.

-

Jet Star doesn’t find himself particularly attached to a religion by the time he’s thirteen, despite all of his mothers’ teachings. His lack of faith might stem from his disbelief in a god that would let an eight year old watch both his parents die in a tragic shoot out, watch his sister die a meaningless death by the hands of her peers. God is merciful and knows best- yes, he knows all that, but he simply can’t wrap his mind around a supposedly generous and loving god allowing that to happen.

Still, he holds the teachings of his mothers to his heart, holding to them as tightly as possible. He might not believe in it, but his mothers thought the world of those faiths, and he won’t let them die with them.

(A part of him languishes over the fact that he’s throwing away everything they gave him. They risked everything to share even the smallest parts of their crumbling ideologies, and yet here he is, refusing them.)

But how could there possibly be a god so cruel to let him watch his family crumble to ashes?

-

When he’s thirteen, he manages to get found by a crew.

They’re all in their very early twenties. Jet Star got lost a bit, trying to get to Tommy Chow Mein’s, who has quickly begun to establish a presence amongst the desert. He likes going there, looking at all the fresh and canned produce and all the neat little trinkets he steals from the city. 

But he got lost on his way there. He had to stop the truck (he kept it and learned how to drive almost all on his own. His sister taught him enough basics) and hunker down for the night.

The group of young adults saw the truck lying in the road and decided to steal it. It looked abandoned, since it was grimy as hell and even more ancient.

“Oh fuck!” Someone shouted, startling Jet Star awake. He’d been stretched out in the backseat, trying to catch a few hours of sleep until the sun rises and he could reorient himself. It’s never good to try and figure out directions and star placements when you’re tired.

Jet Star scrambles up and away from the four people leering in the window, which had been broken long before he had gotten his hands on it. “Hey! What the hell are you doing!?”

“Sorry, kid!” A girl with bright purple hair crooned. “Didn’t realise there was someone in here!”

“Is it just you?” There’s another boy, leaning against the car. He’s got a nasty scar across the bridge of his nose. “Where’s your crew?”

Jet Star’s always been a little too honest. But what does he have to lose? “I don’t have one.”

“What?” A different girl, this one with thick dreads, peers over the boy with a scar. “What happened to them?”

He swallows. It feels strange to refer to his family as a crew, but he decides not to fix it. “They got dusted. It’s just me.”

“Well, fuck,” The original guy, who has thick, beaded braids, says. “Hey, why don’t you join us, huh? No pressure, but wouldn’t it be better to be with some people than all alone?”

“Yeah!” The girl with dreads croons. “Come on kid, we’ll take good care of ya!”

Jet Star isn’t so sure. He’s a bit hesitant, considering what happened the last time people tried to take care of him. But he’s so tired of being all alone, so tired of having to be a grown up and fending for himself.

“Ok.” He quietly begins to scoot towards the band of people. “I’d like that.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jet Star!”

“Alright, brother! You’re talking to the Crimson Riots! You’re gonna make a great addition!”

-

For three years, he lives with the Crimson Riots. And they are quite the riot. They’re nice people, but they like to live life on the edge. They love partying and they drag Jet to the Nest as often as they can.

Jet doesn’t mind. He usually just sits in the corner and listens to the music. He doesn’t accept any offer of drinks, alcoholic or otherwise, and just watches. He just feels the thrum of the beat rattle his bones.

It’s obvious none of them know how to raise a kid. They do their best, but they’re not really sure what the difference between a six year old and a thirteen year old is, or the difference between an eighteen year old and a thirteen year old is. They either act like he’s a fully grown adult or act like he’s a baby, and he’s not sure which one he prefers.

Still, he loves them all dearly.

He gets to be the ringbearer at the mock wedding between the two girls, who had been girlfriends way back when all of them used to live in the city. He gives them two green plastic rings with fake emeralds the two managed to steal from Tommy’s shop.

It’s a fun time, growing up alongside all of them. They’re kind people, always checking to make sure Jet is comfortable before dragging him off anywhere, always trying to make him feel at home and fit in. 

It’s nice, having a little, makeshift family.

-

Not long after Jet Star turns fourteen, he hears life changing news.

“This is Dr. Death Defying,” a silky voice spins. He knows that man, who became integral to the desert life with his knowledge of radio waves and bizarre inside knowledge of BLi’s happenings, a tired veteran of both wars who's now just a DJ and who offers vital intel to the desert people. Ever since the Analog Wars ended, Dr. D’s been the only constant, a voice people can recognise with familiar ease. He and Tommy Chow Mein came together, and both of them have become a glue to the desert society no one can simply scrape off.

“I am horrified to announce the worst news any of you little desert geckos are gonna hear in your lives. Three of our loveable Killjoys have been murdered. Missile Kid was ghosted out on Route Guano by a Drac attack. Our favourite lovebirds, Crow Claws and Raven, were dusted in Zone Five by a sleeper cell android girl. And our beautiful Grenade has been reported as snatched by two exterminators. The remaining member’s condition of our favourite group of bombastic bombers, Mad Gear, remains unknown. No one has seen them since their boyfriend Missile Kid got ghosted.”

The Crimson Riots’ chatter faded to a stop. Everyone was listening to his every word. It wasn’t like Dr. D to simply outright state things- there was always a hidden, double meaning to every syllable of every word. But Dr. D’s voice was somber as he listed the names of his comrades as recently deceased.

“The Killjoys may have become another part of our history, may have become one with the desert, but do not let their message become grains in the sand. You must keep your mask on and keep your gun tight. You must be willing to spit fire and find charcoal. Remember what they were fighting for, and remember what they died for.”

A heavy pause.

“You.”

Another pause.

“Every breath you take, it’s a gift from them. Don’t squander this freedom. This is Dr. Death Defying, signing off.”

The entire zone seems to be silent.

-

Two years later, and Jet Star watches his entire crew die.

He’s sixteen years old now. He knows how to fight and how to protect himself, he knows how to use a gun. He’s had to do it before, and he knows he’ll have to do it again and again. He’s becoming a pretty good shot, and his crew has been calling him ‘sniper’ for a while when they watched him take out their beer bottles from a couple hundred yards out.

They’re at a party. Of course.

The Crimson Riots never cease to roam the zones for the coolest party. It’s all about the music, the free beer and food, and the hot people. They’re party addicts, but there’s always worse things to form an addiction to.

A no name DJ is jockeying, spinning records with ease. She’s good at her job, and looks about Jet Star’s age. She’s got vibrant pink hair and a taste for grunge. He thinks her name was Hot Chimp.

Either way, the music is pumping. The bass tab is rattling Jet Star’s bones and the glasses on the table in front of him. He’s actually having a pretty good time. Usually, he just kind of sits to the side and watches his friends get drunk, except for the girl with dreads, who is the always designated driver (which is something Jet Star has always been thankful for, that he never has to corral all of his drunk friends into a car and drive them home).

But right now he’s having an animated discussion about cowboys with a guy to his left. It’s fun, and he’s finding himself enjoying this socialization. He’s not a hermit by any means, but he’s always been a bit shy.

It’s a good time. He downs a sticky, stale soda that tastes a little expired, and debates on whether cowboys actually existed or if they were actually just legends. He’s pretty sure they’re real.

A gunshot breaks the lull of music. People began to scream. Shrieks of terror begin to climb in numbers as a parade of men dressed in white come barreling through the front doors. They won’t find out until later, but a wave head snitched to BLi about this huge party at the Nest in exchange for some drugs.

A firefight breaks out.

A hail of bullets rains upon the people of the desert. Jet Star dives across the bar counter to shield himself. Shit, he’s gotten split up from his crew, and most of them are probably drunk. Most of the people in this party are probably drunk.

Jet Star peeks up from behind the counter and begins to fire. The Dracs keep moving though, and it keeps throwing off his shot. Yes, he can shoot things at long distances, but he’s not particularly good at shooting moving things. He tries to pick off as many as he can.

Another scream rings out, but he recognises this one.

His eyes lock on to the bodies of the two boys who took him in, the one with braids and the one with a scar. Blood is staining the dance floor. Two exterminators leer above them, blowing out the smoke of their gun. 

Jet Star nearly vaults over the counter when another familiar screams rings out.

The girl with thick dreads is lying on the ground. The woman with purple hair is at her side, on her knees, her gun clattering to the ground. He sees her mouth move, whispering a prayer he’s only heard his mom whisper, and then watches a laser fire straight through her eyes.

Jet Star screams and starts firing like crazy. No, no, they can't all be dead, his entire family couldn’t have just crumbled before his eyes all at once again. He couldn’t have just lost everything.

He’s shooting wildly, his eyes squeezed tight. Jet Star’s never contemplated suicide before- it’s taboo in one religion, and seen as sorrowful in another. His mothers gave up too much to let him just go out by his own hand, but in that moment, he doesn’t care about living. All he can think about is the seven people he’s just watched die in front him and think that maybe he should go ahead and join them.

A hand grabs his shoulder and yanks him to the ground. Jet Star swivels around, ready to fight his assailant, but a hand over his mouth stops him.

Hot Chimp is crouched beside him. In the background, screaming echoes and the disco ball creates a distorted image of her face. “Kid, we need to get out of here.”

Jet knows he needs to run, but the idea of leaving his crew behind hurts. They’re just bodies now, their souls already heading for an afterlife Jet hopes exist, solely for them so they may find peace. He takes a few shaky breaths, then whispers, “Yeah.”

“Okay.” She nods her head towards the set of doors a few feet away. “We’re going to run. A couple of others have already escaped. We’re gonna get on my motorcycle, and we are driving far away from here.”

She glances at the firefight. “I’ll cover you, but you have to open the doors. Okay? I’ll cover you.”

Jet nods. 

“Okay, count of three. One, two..”

Jet Star sprints out as she whispers, “Three.”

Shots echo in the night. One manages to singe his shirt, but Hot Chimp does well on her word. He can see her firing back against the wall of Dracs moving closer to the bar counter as she tries to quickly follow after Jet Star.

He slams the door open and both of them slip out. The cold air of the night nearly steals his breath away but the two don’t stop running. Hot Chimp takes the lead, and Jet Star is careful to follow after her, waiting for them to arrive at her motorcycle.

Jet’s on autopilot, not listening or seeing much around him. His eyes are focused solely on her bright pink hair and that’s the only thing registering as he replays the scenes over and over, as he thinks about his crew dying right in front of him. They were drunk and completely unable to fight, just like so many others in that party.

She hops on a motorcycle just as the door they managed to slip through gets ripped off its hinges. Laser fire pierced through the air as Jet Star sat behind her and latched tightly to her chest.

She doesn’t say where they’re going.

She just drives.

-

It’s isn’t until late the next afternoon do they find their destination. It’s a shack, one that looks worn down and rugged. Jet Star would have almost assumed it was abandoned had Hot Chimp not parked right in front of it.

She shakes him off and steps off the bike. Jet Star’s shaking, reverently. There’s blood staining the cuffs of his pants, and he’s terrified to figure out whose it is. He just swallows as she shakes her head, realising her ponytail.

Finally, she acknowledges him. “This is Dr. D’s radio shack. I live here with him. I’m assuming you don’t have much of a home now.”

Jet Star feels tears brimming in his eyes. “No, I guess not.”

She pats his shoulder and then opens the door. “Come on in, kid.”

Jet Star follows her into the small building. Papers are stacked in strange piles and music cases line every wall. It’s disorderly with the obvious reason of being lived in, and there are odd stains on most surfaces.

“Hot Chimp! Is that you?”

An older man with thick brown hair, tired eyes, and a streak of grey peeks out from another room. Ink blotches stain his cheeks. 

“Yeah, it’s me. I brought a friend.” Jet waves absently at the man, who actually doesn’t look as old as Jet initially thought. He looks like he’s in his early twenties.

The man blinks. He takes in their haggled appearance, the scorches on their clothes. He sighs. “Guess your gig turned into a firefight?”

“Yep.” She shrugs. 

“Do you guys need any medical attention?” He looks them over again, expression serious.

“I’m fine. You?”

Jet wets his lips, everything in him feeling dry. “I’m fine.”

“I’m Cherri Cola.” The man offers his hand to Jet. He takes it, and notices it’s stained in motor oil. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Jet Star.”

“Do you need to crash here? Is your crew coming to get you?”

Jet Star’s expression must have an obvious indication of what happened at the firefight. Cherri Cola immediately offers apologies, but Jet cuts him off. “No, it’s just me.”

“Well, you can stay here as long as you’d like.” He waves to the hallway across from them. “Better go give your regards to Dr. D. He’ll want to know about a flatmate.”

The two teens tiptoe down the hallway. Dr. D is easy to find- he’s in his office, a makeshift recording room. He’s shuffling around a couple of CDs when they enter, and he immediately looks up.

“Hello, Hot Chimp.” He gazes at Jet Star. “Ah, Jet Star, right?”

He blinks. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Well, you’re one of the few kids in this desert. I also fought alongside your mothers in the Helium Wars.” He hums thoughtfully. “Did they ever talk about me?”

“Sometimes.” He doesn’t know how to feel about this conversation. “They weren’t always nice.”

He laughs at that. “Yeah, they thought I was a bit radical.” He puts his attention fully on Jet Star. “I’m guessing you’re going to be staying here for a while?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“It’s no problem.” Dr. D shrugs. “You’re a good kid. And Hot Chimp could use some company.”

Hot Chimp rolls her eyes.

-

Jet Star doesn’t stay in their company for all that long, but just enough to learn a few facts about each of them. Cherri Cola served on the Analog Wars alongside Dr. D, who sort of adopted him. He was only sixteen at the time, desperate to escape Battery City and to prove himself. Now, he’s twenty one, and apparently that grey streak is just from stress.

Hot Chimp only just left Battery City last year. Apparently, they’re becoming much more lenient on letting people out. They don’t think people have the balls to break out anymore. She was seventeen when they met, just a couple months older than him.

It’s interesting, each of their back stories. Dr. D doesn’t talk much about himself, just that he knew his parents. That’s fine with Jet Star- he’s a nice man, so far.

-

A few months after Jet Star settles with the radio heads, a month before his seventeenth birthday, Dr. D pulls him aside.

“I know you just lost your first crew,” he begins, his voice soft. “And I know it’s a horrible feeling to be the sole survivor, let alone twice. And I won’t push you into anything, of course. But there’s a gang I’ve been talking to…”

Jet Star’s blood went cold.

“And they’d be interested in having a fourth member. They’re all interested in taking down BLi- they want to become killjoys. And they’re looking for someone who’s a sharpshooter. Plus, you’re rather a powerhouse. They’re looking for a fighter.” Dr. D tilts his head. “If it’s too soon, I won’t even mention you. But if you’d like to get back out there, to do some good, then I’d be happy to drop your name.”

Jet Star swallows. It feels like years since he watched all of his crew get slaughtered, yet it also feels just like yesterday. He remembers their faces as they died, as they were brutally gunned down right in front of him. He remembers the way his mothers faltered and collapsed to the ground, the way his sister went limp as soon as she was shot.

His stomach churns at the memories, but he can’t stop them. He remains frozen in place, trying desperately to keep his composure.

Dr. D quietly places a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay if you’re not ready.”

Jet Star takes a deep, deep breath. “Can I have some time to think this through?”

“Of course. Take your time.”

-

It takes Jet Star three days and a conversation with Cherri Cola to finally decide. The older man sits across from him at the coffee table they pretend is a dining table, watching the way Jet pushes around his cereal. 

“Think about the doc’s proposition?” 

“Yeah.”

“I think you should go for it.” He hums. “When I was a soldier in the Analog Wars, my entire squadron was killed. I was the only survivor.”

“God, I’m so sorry-“

“I think we both know apologies don’t mean much.” Jet remains quiet. “But it hurts. Watching so many people get massacred in front of you while you stand there, helpless. So many people you’ve become attached to, so many people whose names and faces you could never forget with stories you’ll always remember. It hurts.”

He scribbles a bit on a piece of paper. “But you know what they say, it’s better to have loved someone than to have never loved them at all. If you refuse to open yourself back up after you’ve been hurt, you’ll be missing out on so many things and people. You never know what life has in store for you. These people could become your best friends until you die a natural death at eighty five, or maybe you’ll have to watch them all get slaughtered again.”

He stops writing. He looks straight at Jet Star. “You just don’t know.”

He gets up and stuffs the paper in his pocket. “I never knew any of the people you knew, but would they want you to wallow all your life? To become a hermit who won’t love anyone again, who won’t take chances? And if maybe that is what they’d want…” His eyes pierce his soul. “Is that what you want?”

He begins to walk away. “Just think on it.”

-

“I’ll join their gang.”

“Wonderful! I’ll tell them as soon as I can.”

-

They’re a band of teens. They’re not much older than Jet Star, maybe nineteen. There’s two girls and a nonbinary person. They seem kind.

They’re excited at the prospect of a new friend. They welcome him into their group with open arms, hugging him and babbling about how happy they were to meet him. Dr. D put in quite a few good words for them.

The Amazing Devils is what they were called. Each of them had their own personal vendetta against BLi, and each of them held a fire that burned their heart black. They wanted to tear that corporation to shreds, and Jet Star found himself swept up in their passion for revenge and justice.

They were a nice bunch.

-

Jet Star and them quickly become good friends. They’re a religious bunch of people, but they don’t believe in either of the religions Jet Star was raised in. They regal him with tales of the Phoenix Witch, a deity Jet’s heard quite a bit about since he was young but never cared to dabble in.

They reverently believed in Her, and often wrote letters to send to their lost loved ones. Sometimes, Jet Star joins them. It’s rather cathartic, writing to his family and his crew. It brings him a bit of an inner peace, and Jet Star finds himself writing more and more.

He’s not sure he truly believes in Her. His opinion on religion is ever changing, always on the move. It’s hard to know what to believe in, when there does seem to be a sort of magic in the desert, with strange miracles occurring at odd intervals, with people claiming to have come back from the dead. 

But it’s still hard believing in any kind of God, because that means They watched him watch his friends and family die, and They did nothing.

They understand his complex feelings and never push anything on him. They only explain when he asks questions, when he shows interest in the odd desert religion. They’re happy to spin tales of the Witch and Her parade of the Damned.

They say the Witch has blessed them, because they are garnering quite the success. Jet has to agree that they do seem to be pretty blessed.

Everything is going pretty well. They’re battling Drac patrols now, anytime they hear of one happening. They floor it towards danger and try to defend some of the desert people. It’s not much, but it does feel nice.

Sometimes, when they’re feeling particularly rebellious, they’ll drive towards zone one and Battery City’s outerwall. If they can manage, they like to sneak in and try to scrawl a bit of graffiti. It always gets painted over by the next time they try to get in, but that doesn’t matter much.

It’s a fun time, actually, being rebellious. Firefights are scary, of course, but Jet Star’s becoming weirdly detached from them. They’re not so scary, now. His crew is more than capable of handling themselves, and they always manage to beat back any stupid Dracs that come their way.

It’s a good time, painting symbols of anarchy on the outer wall. It’s a good time, having friends again to egg each other into doing stupid shit. It’s a good time, fucking around and being a teenager with other teenagers, no longer being just the ‘kid’ even though he’s still the youngest.

It’s nice, having friends.

-

The crew lasts barely a year.

When Jet Star turns eighteen, everything goes to hell.

It’s the week after his birthday. They’ve gotten a bit sloppy, a bit too carefree. A bit too reckless, a kind of reckless that doesn’t equate to bravery but stupidity. They’re gotten too confident in their abilities, too egotistical.

BLi can’t tear them down!

BLi can. And will.

They’re driving in an old soccer mom car, cruising along Route Guano. The radio’s been cranked as high as it can go, and Mad Gear, who began to turn to song a year after their comrades' deaths, is cranking out of the speaker. Jet Star feels like he’s going deaf, and it’s wonderful.

At that moment, the radio fizzes out, and a bit of static crackles. Then, a message plays: “This is Canary Call! Please, is anyone nearby? There’s a Drac raid in zone three, right by Dreams Boulevard! Please, come help!”

She gives a few more descriptions before hanging up. Mad Gear comes back, full blast. The girl driving flicks her sunglasses down. “Well, kiddos?”

“Let’s go!” The other girl shouts. They all cheer as the driver does a full swerve and starts speeding down Route Guano at breakneck speeds. It’s barely even a ten minute drive at the speed they’re going, and they reach the scene of the crime just as the second Mad Gear song ends.

The firefight is easy to spot. There’s a cloud of Dracs, their white suits gleaming in the afternoon sun. There’s a whole parade of them, more vans than usual. They don’t think much about that- they can take it!

They slip out of the van and try to sneak up on the group of Dracs. They’re focused on a couple of kids who’ve been cornered into the swarm of Dracs. Jet Star spies a prayer he doesn’t recognise on the middle girl’s lips as the Dracs aim all their guns at the kids.

Electricity fills the air. Jet Star and his gang come sliding into the scene, guns blazing. They manage to startle the group of Dracs, and the Amazing Devils easily gain the upper hand. The kids scatter, managing to escape their capture or execution, and Jet Star doesn’t bat an eye at them.

A new fire fight breaks out. It becomes abundantly clear to no one that there are simply too many Dracs to be able to pick off. None of them can handle this many, let alone as they all separate from each other. There’s no possible way they could have won.

But they’re high on teenage confidence, on past successes. They don’t know when to back down, when to give up. There’s no running, not when BLi is right there, not when they still have all their trigger fingers and their guns. They stay put and they keep firing.

That’s when he hears a terrible, bloodcurdling scream.

He whispers a prayer, the first one he’s said in so long. He whispers that it’s not what he thinks he is, that it’s a battle cry and nothing more. He prays that he’s not going to watch someone die again.

No one answers his prayers.

He looks to his left and sees the driver laying flat on the ground. Dracs have completely surrounded the other girl, and the nonbinary person is trying to fight off two exterminators.

More shots ring out.

The other girl drops to the ground. Jet can see her spilled blood gleaming in the sun. He bites his tongue and fires round after round. Please, he can’t be the only survivor.

The crunching of sand catches his attention. His last friend has fallen.

Jet Star hesitates, just for a moment. What if he let himself get shot? He wouldn’t have to be the only survivor. He’d get to be with his friends again, with his family. He’d get to be with both his crews, both crews who are now all completely dead, decimated, wiped before his eyes. Why not?

Something stops him from just giving up. Maybe it’s God telling him his job isn’t done yet, or maybe it’s his last shred of self preservation kicking in. Maybe it’s divine intervention, or maybe his mind just moved too quickly for him. He’s still not sure.

The thought of just giving up passed. He decides that there’s only one course of action, and it’s not fighting until his last breath or letting himself get shot to death. There’s only one option that has a decent chance of survival.

Jet Star pretends to get shot by one of the lasers aimed towards him. He twists his body and stumbles backwards, pretending to die as he falls limply face first into the sand. He needs to play dead, pretend to be just another corpse like the rest of his friends. He can’t fight all the Dracs. It’s the only way.

He holds his breath as a couple of Dracs surround him. One of them toes his rib cage, and he remains as silent and motionless as he can manage. Thankfully, the Dracs are stupid as hell, and they begin to move away.

“All clear!” One of them shouts, and their staticky voices always make something cold crawl down Jet’s spine. 

The exterminators wander over. One of them is named Korse, he’s certain of that, but he doesn’t know who the other is. “Tch. These killjoy scum are getting easier and easier to pick off.”

“Yeah, at this rate, we're just gonna end up killing them all.” The other exterminator laughs. “Alright, not much to see here. Let’s continue on our patrol. Let the clean up patrol do their work.”

Jet Star hears the sounds of zippers. Body bags are being distributed to all of the bodies. Jet Star swallows, his throat dry at the prospect of essentially being in a coffin, but he remains still.

The Dracs manhandle him into a bag. It’s awkward as Jet tries to remain as limp as he’s sure a body usually is, and he’s a little surprised no one’s noticed the fact that he doesn’t have an actual wound on his body, like the rest of the corpses. He doesn’t question this gift, though.

The Dracs zip him up. He remains still, listening as the sounds of their footsteps begin to fade. He waits until the thrum of the engines dies out, waits until he’s certain he can’t hear those vans anymore. 

When he’s certain enough time has passed, he slowly unzips the bag from the inside. It’s surprisingly easy, and he wonders how many people have done this exact same trick.

He doesn’t leave after he squirms out of the bag. He runs towards the other bags, wondering which ones held his friends. Should he check to see if they have pulses? If they somehow miraculously survived?

He doesn’t have enough time before the clean up crew arrives to check every bag. Besides, he already knows the answer. He saw those vacant eyes, the amount of blood staining the sand. 

He knows.

-

A few days later, he placed a couple of items he found of theirs in the truck. He knows the Witch is supposed to collect masks, but he hopes She’ll take these meagre offerings. It’s all he has.

Jet Star doesn’t believe in a god, doesn’t believe in Her, but his crew mates did. He thinks it’s only fair to give to them what they would have wanted, should all those stories they regaled be true.

-

Jet Star goes back to loafing about on Dr. D’s couch. He just can’t stop thinking about how god awful his luck is, how he seems to be completely and utterly cursed. He’s only eighteen years old and yet everyone he comes in contact with has already fucking died. Ten people, all dead.

And he was the common denominator between them all.

Hot Chimp offers her sympathy, but she doesn’t understand. And Jet Star doesn’t blame her, because she hasn’t faced this amount of carnage so many times, and he hopes to the god above that she never does. He appreciates her attempts to cheer him up, but he just can’t be bothered to even pretend that they work.

Cherri Cola offers his condolences and his own wisdom. “Remember, kid. Don’t become hampered by a past you have no control of. There’s a reason you keep surviving. Don’t throw yourself away. But take your time.”

Cherri Cola gets it in a way Jet Star doesn’t even understand. He supposed it’s because they both have that survivor's guilt, though in different ways. Cherri Cola doesn’t pressure him into trying to find new friends, offers him only time and reminders to not let his life be squandered.

Dr. D offers him a home, and eventually, when he turns nineteen, a job. “How about you become one of my messengers? Do you remember Show Pony?”

Frankly, Jet Star isn’t even sure they’ve met. “No?”

“Ah, they’re a little younger than you. They’re one of my messengers, but they’re away on an undercover mission in one of the pill factories. They do that quite often.” Dr. D shrugs. “In any case, I’m down a man. Would you be interested? It’ll get you out of the house, some fresh changes of scenery.”

Jet Star doesn’t really think he has much of a choice. “Why not Hot Chimp?”

“She’s moving out, Jet, you know that.” He gives him a disappointed look. “She’s found a place to renovate into her club.”

She’s always dreamed of being a real DJ. Just like Dr. D, she has a thirst for music and a talent for spinning tunes. It’s going to be called Bullets, and Jet promised to come there as soon as it opens.

“And, she’s got a girlfriend to look after.” Jet remembers. Newsagogo was quite the fanfare when she first arrived- she’s a year older than Hot Chimp, and was a reporter for BLi who was caught as a spy for the killjoy movement, and who had to flee. Hot Chimp and her hit it off, and they’ve been lovers ever since. “I’m not going to ask her to turn nomadic when she’s finally getting her life together.”

“What, and I don’t?”

“No, you don’t.” Dr. D dangles some keys in front of Jet Star. From the cowboy hat keychain, he knows it’s Cherri Cola’s truck. “Now, what do you say?”

Jet Star sighs. He doesn’t really want to get reacquainted with the world just yet. He wants to mope about a little longer. But there’s that awful look of determination in Dr. D’s eyes. He’s not going to stop nagging him until he gives in. Stubborn man.

Besides, Cherri’s words of wisdom are ringing in the back of his head. He can’t just squander his life away on that couch, despite how tantalising that sounds.

He snatches the keys out of Dr. D’s hands. “Alright, where do you want me to go?”

-

It’s not too terrible of a gig. Even when Show Pony comes back and Jet Star properly meets them (they’re terribly loud, but Jet Star’s growing more fond the more time they spend together), Jet Star remains a permanent messenger. Cherri Cola drops his duties as one and gives the truck to Jet completely.

“I’m not interested in fighting anymore,” he said. “I’d rather use my pen then use a gun.”

So Jet Star gets to keep the battered truck and the job. It’s nice.

He eventually moves out, though he’s not that far from the doc. He spends his days loafing about an abandoned antique shop, which had long ago been pilfered for anything of value. Still, there’s a couple of fun collectibles still standing. It’s nice having a place of his own, and he no longer feels guilty for free loading at the radio shack.

He has a home now, and maybe the inklings of a family. 

-

Jet Star’s life changes a month before he turns twenty, when he’s out on the road.

He isn’t sure as to why he was driving that day- he thinks he was leaving Tommy Chow Mein’s shop, giving him some message from his brother, heading back to his humble abode- when the acid rain began to pour. Unfortunately for the entirety of the desert, acid rain storms were impossible to predict more than an hour in advance- the only warning sign that the rain would be acidic instead of simply water would be the slightly off hue of the clouds that swirled above and the soft green tint of the sky.

No matter the reason, Jet Star was slamming the accelerator. That acid has been known to burn through metal, and he doesn’t want to melt his truck.

A blur of red catches his attention.

He slows down enough just in time to catch a glimpse of someone huddled by the base of a looming cactus. A red jacket acts as a tent to protect them from the hellish drops of fire. Jet Star slams the break on the car- there's no way in hell he's just going to leave someone out in the acid rain.

“Hey, kid! You want in?”

The kid doesn’t have to be asked twice. She runs as quickly as possible, becoming a red blur once again as she races to reach the car. She has dirty, long hair and Jet Star can see that the jacket wasn't able to protect her fully- acid splashes mark her hands and cheeks, which will turn into scale-like scars that never quite fade.

The door slams shut. Jet Star revs the engine and shoots forward, back on track to his home. He’d offer a ride back to that kid’s home, but he’s not willing to risk too much exposure to the rain when he’s not sure how far away she lives nor how long the rainstorm will last.

“Thanks,” the kid finally says, just as a lull of silence began to pass over them.

“No problem. What's your name, huh? Haven’t seen you around.”

“Kobra Kid.”

“I’m Jet Star. Nice to meet you.”

-

He takes the kid back to his house. The kid hasn’t spoken a word since their greetings, and Jet Star quickly ushers them inside the shop. Kobra Kid glances around, clearly intrigued.

“Do you got a crew, kid?”

She rubs her fingers on an old table. “Naw.”

“Oh.” He hesitates. “Were they…”

He doesn’t really want to say the word. She seems to understand what he means and she glances up, her face tight. “No. I escaped from the city. I haven’t been here long enough to get a crew.”

Jet Star watches her for a few moments as she hesitantly makes her way to the couch. She’s got a lot of acid burns and is in probably quite a bit of pain. Some of her hair’s been burnt. She sits down and gives a tired sigh.

“Hey, stay there,” he says, as if she’s going to go dart back into the rain. He snatches a white box off the kitchen counter and heads right back toward her. She eyes him wearily until he begins to pull out bandages. “Let me see.”

She hesitates, then holds out her arms. Her hands have taken the brunt from holding up the jacket. Jet Star gets to work, wrapping her wrists and arms. It’s kind of weird, doing medical work on someone that’s not him. He never had to be the medic for any of his crews.

“Thanks,” she whispers.

“Here’s a thought.” 

Jet Star looks her over, once, twice. She looks the same age he was when he joined his first, actual crew, when the Crimson Riots adopted him into their roaming travel party. He’s the same age as them, too.

“Do you want to make a crew with me?” He sits down next to her. “I mean, I don’t want to pressure you into anything, and I know we just met, but if you’re all alone, I don’t want you to be all alone, which sounded weird but-“

She laughs. It’s soft, gentle, and very, very quiet. It stops Jet Star in his tracks.

“Thank you,” she repeats, firmer. “And I’d like that. You seem nice.”

Jet Star smiles. “We’re gonna make a great team.

-

Jet Star takes Kobra Kid out on his drives and message deliveries. He definitely doesn’t want to leave the kid alone, not after they just left, and there’s a bit of paranoia in him that Kobra Kid might try and rob him blind. He’s known of a few people who got robbed from letting in new breachers. 

The first few months are hard. They don’t really trust each other much. Jet Star tries to think about his time with the Crimson Riots, tried to think of when he was thirteen and was getting acquainted with them. It wasn’t like this.

Jet Star was an eager person. He liked making friends, he liked small talk. As long as someone extended an olive branch toward him, he’d happily take it. He doesn’t usually start conversations with strangers, but if they start talking to him, then he’d chat them right up. It was easy for him to be with the Riots because that was his personality.

Kobra Kid wasn’t fond of talking much. It’s probably because the kid is fresh from the city, and Jet Star tried not to get too miffed about Kobra’s silence. 

Kobra Kid doesn’t begin opening up until about the third month.

Jet Star’s just woken up- he’s a heavy sleeper, and a long one at that. He could sleep for days on end, and sometimes he worries that he might slip into a coma. He sees the bathroom door closed and leaves it at that, digging around on the kitchen for some stale cereal.

He starts piddling with the radio, trying to set all the frequencies. It got smashed a week ago, when Kobra accidentally got too riled up. The kid had a mean temper.

It’s a couple hours in does he realise he hasn’t heard from that kid in a while. He sets the radio down and investigates, checking their rooms. Not there.

Huh.

He glances at the bathroom. He can hear a bit of scuffling, boots scraping against the tiled floor. He knocks on the door, quietly. “Hey, kid? You okay?”

“Yeah-“ Kobra’s voice is shaky, like the kid’s trying to hold back a sob. That doesn’t reassure Jet. “I’m fine- just. Stay out there.”

“Hey, wait. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

There’s a frantic movement in the bathroom. He can’t tell what Kobra is trying to do, he just hears weird clacks and boots stomping. “Hey, let me in, kid. Listen, you don’t have to worry about me judging anything, if something’s wrong-“

“Stay out there!”

It sounded almost hysterical. Jet Star blinks and leans away from the door. He has no idea what the fuck that kid is doing, and it’s kind of scaring him. He doesn’t like to fear the worst, but he can’t help but wonder if maybe the kid’s fallen into some self destructive habits when he wasn’t looking.

“Sorry, kid,” he mumbles, and then yanks the door open.

Kobra Kid screams.

Jet Star takes in the sight.

Dark, dark hair is scattered on the floor. Huge chunks lay astrewn, and Kobra Kid is backing into a corner. The kid’s hair had been all chopped up, the once long braid that became a usual sight was now a slightly too short mullet. There’s a pair of scissors on the sink top, gleaming in the dim, flickering lights.

Jet Star takes a deep, deep breath. “Is that all? Just a haircut?”

Kobra Kid’s eyes dip to the floor. “Sort of.”

“C’mon, girlie. Give me something to work with.”

Kobra straightens. The kid’s eyes slowly move up until they’re looking each other in the eye. The kid grips the scissors tightly, knuckles turning pale.

“I’m not a girl.”

Oh.

OH.

Jet blinks again, rapidly.

Kobra Kid seems to take it as a bad sign. “I… people in desert seem so carefree about gender, and well, after meeting Show Pony, they told me a bit about being transgender, and I think I might be… trans.”

“You’re a boy?”

“Yeah.” Kobra swallows. “Like you.”

Jet Star hums, glancing back at the messy locks of dark hair on the ground, then back at Kobra. “No, you’re not.”

Kobra seems to freeze. Jet Star plucks the scissors from the kid’s hands.

“You’re nothing like me with that ugly cut. C’mon, little bro, turn around so I can give you a better look than this ugly mullet. Don’t be stealing Pony’s look.”

He sees Kobra Kid’s face light up in the mirror.

-

Jet Star doesn’t learn very much about Kobra Kid, if he’s honest. The kid just really isn’t one for talking, That’s not to say he has nothing to say- if Jet can coerce him enough, the kid can talk for miles on end about almost anything. But he thinks his anxiety keeps him from speaking his mind all the time, and that’s why he’s so damn quiet all the time.

Kobra Kid is eleven years old when Jet finds him, and Jet doesn’t necessarily become the kid’s parental figure, but Jet kind of feels akin to a father, and it’s a bit strange. Jet Star himself is only twenty when they first meet, but he feels strangely old in comparison to the child he accidentally adopts. It does make him wonder what the Riots felt when they took him in.

Kobra Kid has ancient eyes, eyes that scream that he has seen things no one else has. Jet Star wonders if he had those eyes when he was young, after he watched his mothers die, or maybe after watching both of his crews get ghosted. 

Jet Star tries his best, tries his damnedest to give everything he can for this kid. He tries to quietly teach him all the lessons his mothers did, about generosity and kindness and such, hoping his actions of stopping to help anyone in need makes an impression on the eleven year old. He’s trying to be a good role model.

As Kobra gets more intune with his masculinity, Jet tries to help him unlearn the toxic masculinity of the city. He teaches him that there’s no real way to be a perfect boy, that he can do whatever the hell he likes in terms of gender fucking. Kobra watches him with wide eyes, and while he never says much, Jet knows he’s listening and paying attention.

They become a little duo, and slowly, slowly, they begin to trust each other. It just takes time.

-

He doesn’t learn much about Kobra Kid until about eight months after they meet.

There’s a sand storm brewing, and the two of them are hiding out in the underground part of the small antique shop. Jet can hear the sounds of sand particles scraping against the windows and the walls as high speed winds rattle the entire, flimsy building. The only other sound is static as Jet Star tinkers with the radio, trying to get a hold of Dr. Death Defying’s channel.

“You remind me of my sibling.”

Jet Star stops what he’s doing instantly. It’s the first time Kobra Kid’s ever spoken without being spoken to first, and the first time he’s just spouted information about himself without prompting.

“I… do?”

Kobra Kid nods, contemplative. “I think they’d like you a lot, too.”

Another silence passes. Jet Star quickly realises that that is probably the highest praise he’s ever received in his life, at least by Kobra Kid’s complimenting standards. 

Jet Star desperately wants to ask so many questions, but he doesn’t dare. He tries to think of small questions that won’t scare off Kobra Kid as he fiddles with the radio to try and add some normalcy. “Thanks, man. What kind of music do they like?”

Kobra appears somber. Was that the wrong question? “I think they used to talk about rock and roll.”

“You have rock and roll in the city?” 

“In the Lobby.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. Jet sighs. “Huh. Are they older than you?”

“They’re my twin.” Kobra Kid picks at his red jacket, which is way too big on his bony shoulders. It helps him with his dysphoria though, and Jet Star thinks it makes him look absolutely adorable, like a little kid trying on his dad’s clothes. “Is Dr. D’s station coming in?”

Jet Star takes that as a cue to drop the subject. “Not yet.”

They spend the rest of that evening talking about various rock and roll artists. There’s a sad look in Kobra’s eyes as they talk. 

-

They spend two years alone together. Dr. D doesn’t seem to care for Kobra Kid much, and Jet Star’s beginning to wonder if maybe Dr. D isn’t all he’s cracked up to be. He never thought of him as perfect, not by a long shot, but when Dr. D tried to dissuade him from ‘adopting’ Kobra, he’s got a feeling there’s something lurking underneath the man’s skin.

Either way, they spend their time delivering messages for the doc, getting acquainted with each other. Kobra Kid’s beginning to open up, and it’s honestly pretty wonderful. He’s like the kid sibling Jet’s always wanted.

He likes magazines and karate and knives and the colours yellow and red (though, red seems to bring him a bit of sorrow). He loves his short hair and has been styling it, and is trying to get into dying it. He likes to paint his nails black and he likes to listen to pop and dance music (he loves Cobra Starship). He loves snakes, and knows how to catch them- apparently, that’s how he got his name. He doesn’t believe in any sort of God but he does believe in ghosts.

Jet begins to learn more and more about his personality. Jet begins to forget about whatever past he may have had in the city and focuses on who he’s becoming. 

When Kobra Kid is thirteen and Jet Star’s on his way to turning twenty two, something happens.

-

They’re at the market. Jet Star and him are trying to look for some motor oil, and they’re just wandering through the maze of stalls. The radio is booming, and Mad Gear is blasting. Seems they’ve made their way to stardom.

“How come it's ‘Mad Gear and Missile Kid’?” Kobra wonders. “Mad Gear’s the only person on stage.”

“It’s a long story. They used to have a boyfriend named Missile Kid. But Missile got killed in a gunfight.” Jet Star kicks the ground a bit, thinking about that broadcast nearly ten years ago. “Mad Gear’s been haunted by that day for a while. They also served in the Analog Wars, and they watched pig bomb after pig bomb get dropped on their comrades and civilians. One day, they hallucinated a huge weapon coming down from the heavens, said to have been gifted by the Phoenix Witch, and it was a bomb called Missile Kid. Mad Gear thinks the bomb is Missile Kid, but reborn as a weapon that will cleanse the earth in a purifying flame. They keep trying to unleash Missile Kid in every performance, but it hasn’t worked yet.”

Kobra Kid sighs. “Oh.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of sad.”

They continue to walk along the edges of the market. Kobra Kid seems lost in thought, probably thinking over Mad Gear and Missile Kid’s tragic love story. Jet Star certainly is.

Suddenly, a hand reaches out. Kobra Kid tumbled away from Jet Star, someone grabbing him by his jacket and pulling him away. Jet Star pulls out his blaster, ready to fire as he follows Kobra into the dark alley between a couple of stalls.

A kid with ratty, greasy hair has one hand clamped over Kobra’s mouth and another pressing a rusty knife into his throat. Jet Star notices the Frankenstein mask in his back pocket, and Jet Star recognises this rat.

Fun Ghoul.

He’s known throughout the zones as this feral, freaky child. They say he’s been living his entire life on his own, raised by vultures. The kid knows how to survive, and he’s not really someone you want to cross. He’s horribly violent, and he has a huge fixation on demolitions- he very much loves bombs.

Right now, this kid is staring Jet Star dead in the eyes. “C’mon, give me all your carbons.”

Jet Star’s gun is pointed straight at his head. Jet Star flicks his glasses up to his forehead, letting Ghoul see his unimpressed look. “Really?”

Ghoul’s eyes narrow. “Come on, give it up or this bitch gets his throat slit. You can’t shoot me quicker than I can slice.”

Jet Star hums, conceding. He begins to lower his gun. Fun Ghoul smiles at that, his teeth all sharp and pointed, like his mouth is full of only canines. ”Smart move.”

Jet Star offers him a grin. Suddenly, he jerks his arm back up, flicks the safety on to tase, and fires. Ghoul tumbles to the ground, a bit burnt, but otherwise unharmed. Kobra Kid stumbles towards Jet, wiping his mouth.

“Your hands taste like the acid pools in zone one,” Kobra states. 

Ghoul sits up off the ground, his expression fuming. There’s a small burn on his leg from where Jet shot him. “Hey! That’s foul play!”

“You just tried to mug us!”

“And?! I didn’t play dirty!”

“You held my brother hostage!”

Before Ghoul could even retort, a low rumbling hit their ears. Kobra and Jet stared at him, and suddenly, Jet doesn’t see an asshole who tried to kill them. 

He takes in Fun Ghoul’s appearance, takes a closer look this time. He’s small, smaller than most people. He looks like he hasn’t had a bath in years. His nails are grimy but are bitten down to the bed. Despite the animosity in his eyes, he sees a bit of fear. 

This isn’t some adult trying to haggle carbons for alcohol or something. This is a scared kid trying to get some money to survive. To get food.

Jet frowns. He quietly shoves his gun back into his holster, shocking both Kobra and Ghoul. He rubs his head, thinking. “Alright, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Listen, I think we all heard your stomach. You’re hungry, huh? Let’s get this bitch something to eat.”

Jet Star begins to walk off. He doesn’t hear any footsteps, so he glances back. Fun Ghoul is staring at him, wide eyed at the turn of events. Kobra Kid rubs his throat, thinking. 

He moves towards Fun Ghoul, who watches him wearily. Kobra offers his hand. “Come on, man. Sharp Wit at the end of the market makes the best pancakes. There’s barely any sand in them.”

Ghoul stares at the hand. Jet Star watches, watches as he slowly takes his hand. Kobra pulls him up and Ghoul looks completely bewildered.

-

They run into each other a couple of times after that. Every time, Jet Star offers the stray a bit of food. Ghoul feigns disdain and pretends to be worried he’s getting poisoned, but once Jet hands him the food, he quickly inhales it.

Jet Star doesn’t really care for Ghoul all that much. He’s violent and likes to pick fights and doesn’t give a damn about anyone but himself. It makes sense, given the legend surrounding his upraising, and Jet tries not to hold a grudge, but yeah. He doesn’t really like Ghoul.

Kobra Kid, however, seems to form a weird bond with the kid who tried to fucking slit his throat a handful of weeks ago. The two get along pretty well- they both like magazines and cars and black nail polish. Ghoul’s only a year younger than Kobra, and they strike it off.

Ghoul eventually begins to hang around the antique shop. He and Kobra will have ‘slumber parties’ and Jet finds them occasionally on the couch together, passed out from a night of gaming. Ghoul managed to (steal) bring an old Game Boy and the two were having a riot playing some of the old games.

“Hey.”

Jet glances at Kobra. Somehow, he managed to untangle himself from Ghoul. Ghoul doesn’t like touches when he’s awake, but as soon as he loses consciousness, he becomes a cuddly octopus. 

Kobra slips into the chair next to Jet at the kitchen table. He snatches a few of the fruity pebbles in Jet’s bowl, and Jet half heartedly slaps his hand. “What do you want?”

“I know it’s just been us, that we’re a crew, by ourselves, but…” Kobra glances at Ghoul. “I think we should invite Ghoul.”

“Into our gang?”

“Come on, he’s basically already a part of it.” Kobra shrugs. “He’s here like, all the time. He doesn’t have a real home or another crew. Why not?”

Jet heaves a dramatic sigh. “Must we adopt the rat?”

“Hey, you adopted me.” Kobra winks. “Give him a chance.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see if he even wants to join.”

-

Fun Ghoul does want to join. Very, very much. He pretends to be uncaring, but Jet Star can see the way he’s forcing down a smile on his busted and chapped lips.

“Yeah,” Fun Ghoul finally answers. “I mean, I don’t have anyone else to antagonize constantly.”

Jet Star pats his back. “Welcome to the crew, Ghoulie.”

Ghoul sticks his tongue out at the nickname. But he smiles, quietly. His teeth don’t seem quite as sharp as they used to.

-

For another two years, it’s just those three. It’s just Jet Star, trying to look out for these two young teenagers as they wander about the zones. 

Jet Star quits his job as Dr. D’s messenger. Dr. D chides him, of course. “There’s a bigger mission here, Jet. I understand that you like those kids, but this cause is bigger than any of us.”

Jet Star doesn’t care. He doesn’t really care about being a killjoy. Being a killjoy killed his sister, it killed his second crew. It killed the original Killjoys, and it’ll keep killing. He needs to keep these kids safe, and he can’t do that when he’s constantly on the run, either because of BLi or because Dr. D pissed someone off.

Dr. D tries to talk him out of it, tries to talk him into giving up those kids. But Jet Star is firm, and he won’t listen to a word Dr. Death Defying has to say. So Dr. D lets him go, albeit chuffed at the prospect of losing his handy messenger.

Eventually, the antique shop gets compromised. Jet doesn’t want to blame Dr. D, but the raid that happens almost a week after he quits is a little suspicious. The three fight their way out of the hands of Dracs and their home gets destroyed in the process.

It’s fine. Before BLi’s clean up crew comes to pick up the bodies of the Dracs, they pilfer through the shop and snatch as many things as they can into the truck. Jet Star pours gasoline on the bodies of the Dracs while the kids move out.

He lights every body on fire and watches them burn. It’s become a custom of the desert people to burn the bodies of Dracs. Show Pony managed to smuggle some inside information that confirmed that most Dracs were actually the husks of former Killjoys, that BLi has begun reanimating the recently deceased and turning them into puppets.

Everyone views that as a curse. So they begin to burn bodies to keep BLi’s hands off them, and hopefully, keep their infinite army finite. No matter whose side anyone's on, the deceased are almost always turned to ash.

They hitch up and head on out, driving away from the sight of the still burning bodies. They bounce from zone to zone until they find an abandoned diner. The ‘n’ and the ’r’ have fallen off, and Fun Ghoul becomes enamoured with a building that literally screams ‘die’.

They move inside and they make a new home. They spend time, quietly getting accustomed to each other. Fun Ghoul begins to hesitantly open up, just like Kobra Kid, and Jet Star watches as he eagerly begins to become a part of their family.

He learns that Fun Ghoul knows how to wire a bomb with one hand, that he has a tattoo on his back from a dare. He learns that Ghoul’s parents died when he was really young, that they were killed by a sleeper cell android girl (and it’s weird how familiar that story sounds). He learns that Ghoul knows the exact kind of rocks found in each zone, that he likes to catch scorpions but he’s terrified of spiders. He learns that Fun Ghoul believes in the myth of Destroya, the robot carcass out by the Nest, and is a firm believer that it will eventually help in the destruction of BLi.

He learns that Kobra and Ghoul are becoming very, very fast friends. That they both love gaming and pulling stupid pranks on Jet Star. Jet Star likes to pull them back then they least expect it.

It’s nice, having a couple of little brothers. Jet Star feels a constant anxiety for them, but it’s nice not being alone.

It’s nice having a family.

-

For two years, it’s just them. They learn to love each other, to become a little family. It’s very weird for Jet to assume the role of an adult, for him to be ten years older than these teens. He’s used to being the youngest, the most inexperienced, that weird kid with a sad past.

But he sees Kobra Kid’s eyes, and he sees Ghoul’s, and he sees an entire generation haunted by something much bigger than them.

Either way, those years are amazing. Jet Star finds his anxiety over developing a new crew beginning to fade. Jet Star isn’t that same fifteen year old or even that eighteen year old who watched his crews get slaughtered. He’s twenty three, and he has plenty of experience to keep these kids surviving.

(But that’s probably what all of his crews thought, too.)

And they are surviving. They’re even thriving. They never have any carbons since Jet quit his job with Dr. D, but that’s fine. The world revolves mostly on bartering, and Jet’s been slumming around the desert long enough to be able to find valuables to trade.

Everyone always discounts Tommy Chow Mein as a greedy old man, but in Jet Star’s decade of knowing him, he sees that that’s not completely true, just like how Dr. D isn’t completely good. Tommy doesn’t have a bleeding heart by any means, and he can be pretty hard and mean. But Tommy can tell if a person is good or not, can tell if they’re well intentioned or if they’re one of those killjoys who just like to cause trouble for the fun of it.

If Tommy thinks you’re a good person, then he’ll lower his prices for you. If you can’t afford medicine or food, he’ll wave it off, pretending you're in debt to him even though he doesn’t actually care. If you can prove that you have a good soul, a good heart, then Tommy will stay on your side.

Surviving is actually pretty easy.

Firefights, however, still manage to raise the hairs on Jet Star’s neck.

Ghoul and Kobra Kid can fight. He made sure to teach Kobra how to use a gun when they met, and he made sure to teach him well. Kobra isn’t the best shot, but he can still do quite a bit of damage- plus, he’s great in hand to hand combat. 

Ghoul knows demolitions better than he knows himself. He knows how to use bombs and he’s not afraid to do so. He’s got a mean trigger finger, and while he’s not the most precise, he is pretty accurate.

Still, Jet Star’s terrified. He doesn’t want these kids to get slaughtered, and he doesn’t want to be the sole survivor again. He will die protecting these kids, his little brothers, so help him God.

It’s in a firefight when they meet the last member of their crew.

They were driving along the outskirts of zone two. There was some crash queen festival Kobra had been prattling on about, and they decided to go ahead and go. Jet Star was hoping he’d be able to cash in this truck for a better car at the show, since crash queens were all about motor engines.

Unfortunately, there was a huge patrol of Dracs that began to chase them down. They usually linger around zones one and three, and Jet Star really should have seen this coming. The truck isn’t built for speed, though, so eventually they all had to pile out and start a ground shoot out when Dracs began to catch up. Jet could see the zone mailbox in the distance, and if he squinted, he could probably make out the crudely drawn Phoenix Witch who resides on one of the sides of the box.

Waves of white crashed against the sand. Jet Star tries his damnedest to keep Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul by his side, but the Dracs just keep coming. Plus, there were three exterminators they had to keep their eyes out for, and Jet recognises one of them as Korse.

The man’s career had skyrocketed since the last time the two came face to face. He’s become notorious for slaughtering hundreds of killjoys and city breachers, and he usually never leaves any survivors in his midst. As of late, he’s begun training three new recruits, and one exterminator in particular seems to be his favourite pet.

Jet Star is, safe to say, terrified.

He’s trying not to freeze, not to run.

One of Korse’s pets is tight on his trail. She’s hunting him, stalking him like a predator, and he can feel her eyes on him as she lurks about the field. He tries to keep his wits about him, but there’s too many Dracs to pay much attention to her, too many lasers being shot at him.

He lets his guard down.

A shot singes his shoulder. He fights back a yelp and keeps firing. There’s the sound of sand crunching, dust being kicked up, but Jet barely has time to register those sounds, let alone react. A body tackles him to the ground.

The exterminator is on top of him. He’s trying to fight her off, wriggling under her weight and blocking the gun she’s trying to point in his face. She growls at him, actually growls, and Jet remembers that exterminators aren’t on the same medication as Dracs, that they can feel things- though, those emotions only amount to an unyielding rage, typically.

“Where are they?” She demands.

“What? Who?”

A couple crows caw in the distance. Suddenly, there’s a scream next to him. Jet doesn’t recognise that voice. Instinct kicks in, and even the girl on top of him glances to the side to see the cause.

In a hail of laser fire, a newcomer appears, drawn to the fight like a moth to light. They say to never come to a gunfight with only a knife, but the new person was armed with a simple switchblade that day. They’re currently using that switchblade on a different exterminator, one who wanderered a bit too far from his master, Korse.

They’re dressed in a jacket that feels familiar. Black cloth draped across their body like ink on a canvas. They seem unnaturally pale. They remind Jet of a story his old crew used to whisper. Stories of a band that played in the afterlife, a parade disguised as a funeral for the Damned led by the Witch’s sister, Mother War.

Jet and the exterminator look over just in time to watch the new person slit the other exterminator’s throat. Blood gushes down his crisp white uniform, and Jet Star flinches at the sight. The woman on him has a fury that can’t be contained in her eyes, and she punches Jet in the face.

“That’s where they are, huh?” She spits. Her gun manages to get lodged in Jet Star’s throat, and a feeling of terror washes over him. He can’t die, he needs to protect his brothers. “Once I’m done with you….”

She doesn’t get to finish. Something shiny catches the corner of Jet’s eye, and Jet watches as a rusty switchblade sunk into her neck. She let out a scream of her own and she fell to the ground, releasing Jet Star. Blood spilled like a fountain from her throat, and she remained on the ground, writhing in pain.

A hand is extended towards him.

A face peers down at him. Their hair is shorn right to their head, and it’s been coloured a near translucent white. The sun reflects around it, casting an odd halo about their head. There’s a smile on their lips, a face that’s ghostly pale.

“Come,” they murmur.

Jet Star takes the hand.

They pull Jet Star to his feet. Immediately, their body spins towards the woman on the ground, who’s clawing at her throat. It didn’t kill her, not quite yet. 

They walk over towards her and snatch the knife out of her neck. She makes an awful sound at that, and then Jet Star watches as the newcomer slits her throat. Jet Star desperately tried to hold back vomiting as he watched them kick her head, like they were making sure she was properly dead.

They glance at Jet and begin to make their way back at his side. They’re pretty short, almost Ghoul’s height, and it sure is odd staring down at a person he just watched violently kill two people. 

“Thank you,” he finally says, though it doesn’t really feel appropriate to thank them for grotesquely murdering two people.

“No problem.”

There’s another scream. This time, Jet Star does recognize the voice even though he’s only heard this sound once before. They both turn towards the source of the cry, and Jet Star freezes.

Fun Ghoul has collapsed to the ground, his stomach smoking. Kobra Kid is on his knees beside him, clearly crying. Korse has his gun aimed right at Kobra Kid’s head.

No, this can’t be happening. This can’t happen again. Jet Star isn’t going to fucking lose everything all over again.

He tries to aim his gun but he feels locked in place. Reality begins to blur, and the line between memory and the present starts crossing.

For a moment, he feels like he’s fifteen again, watching the two women he helped get married get gunned down. He feels like he’s eighteen, watching all three of his friends get surrounded by Dracs, watches them breathe their last breath. The colour red paints his vision, and he just stands there, numbly, trying to fight off those memories.

The gun in his hand suddenly disappears, the weight dissipating. It manages to snap Jet back to attention, and he sees his gun in the hands of the newcomer. They’re squinting at the distance, eyes locked on Korse.

They take a breath.

A shot breaks through the suffocating air.

Korse stumbles, falters. There’s a scorch mark on his shoulder. He glances away from the teenagers, his eyes set on the person beside Jet. They take a few more shots, sending a hail of bullets right at Korse’s head.

Korse moves away from the two kids, begins stalking right towards Jet Star. A smile paints itself on the new person’s face, something a bit too manic to bring Jet Star comfort. They draw out their switchblade and toss the gun at Jet Star, who haphazardly catches it.

They wink at him. “Had to take the gun to make the shot. I’ll be right back.”

Jet watches as they sprint right towards Korse, armed only with a small knife. Dracs are making their way back around Jet Star, and he knows he should be focusing on the new enemies, but he can’t take his eyes off the new person.

He goes back to slaying Dracs once he sees Kobra pull Ghoul to his feet. The fight keeps going, though it’s beginning to lose its intensity, as the Dracs have lost their exterminators and have very little ability to perform without orders. 

Jet Star fires shot after shot. He tries to keep his mind numb, just to focus on the firefight and nothing else. He just needs to survive, because his brothers are surviving, and he has to make it out alive with them. Just breathe. Just shoot. Just survive.

Dracs begin to litter the surface of the desert. Slowly, the dust begins to settle.

Eventually, Korse decides to call a retreat. There are too many Dracs who got dusted, and as the numbers keep dwindling, it’s becoming more and more abundantly clear who's going to end up winning this fight.

Jet watches as Korse shoots the newcomer in the shoulder right as they make an incision on his cheek. When the newcomer jolts away, Korse and his men begin to make a break for it. The newcomer cheers, laughing as Korse shoots at them while he runs towards the vans. 

Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul begin to pick their way towards the newcomer. Jet Star avoids the corpses as he follows suit, listening to the thrum of the vans’ engines as they rattle towards the distance.

He’s arriving just as they begin to speak.

“Ha!” Ghoul elbows the person in the shoulder, right where Jet was pretty sure they got shot. Ghoul points at their knife, which was dripping with red blood. “Man, you sure know how to fight even with that tiny thing! They should call you the patron saint of switchblade fights.”

Jet Star skidded to a stop right next to Kobra Kid. The newcomer gained a couple of injuries themself in the tussle with Korse- they seemed to have a broken nose, a couple of scratches, a few burns, and some bruises. Nothing fatal, but they were bleeding now.

“What’s your name?” Kobra asks, straight to the point as always.

The newcomer dressed in their funeral black offers a strange smile. Their lips are painted red from their broken nose, blood dripping down their face, the only inkling of colour on their entire body. “You may call me Party Poison.”

Kobra’s eyes twinkle strangely at the name. Jet Star hums. “I’m Jet Star. Do you have a crew?”

“Nope. I just escaped Bat City.”

They still have that heavy Battery accent, one that began to develop as a cultural transition between the desert and the city began to take place. It makes their voice sound strangely gravely despite the velvet crunch of their words.

“Hey, you should hang out with us for a bit!” Ghoul states, his eyes trained on that bloody knife. “Since you ain’t got nowhere to go, huh?”

“Yeah, what do you say?” Jet offers his hand. “You’re a damn good fighter, and I’d like to get to know you.”

Poison grins. “I’d be happy to.”

-

It was a little awkward, cramming into the truck together with a stranger they just met. Ghoul takes dibs on shotgun, which for some reason, Kobra doesn’t even try to fight. Kobra just sits behind Ghoul, oddly detached from everything. Hesitantly, Party Poison sits next to him.

The car show already passed. The firefight took way too long, and none of them are really in a mood to check out the aftermath, anyway. There will be one next month.

Kobra Kid shivers in the backseat. Fun Ghoul’s watching Party Poison with a keen interest, clearly excited from the firefight and from watching them chase off Korse with just a knife. Jet has his eyes on Kobra Kid, though.

His eyes keep flickering back to Party Poison, like he’s trying desperately not to stare, but he just can’t help himself. Jet Star lets himself glance at Party Poison, who’s staring absently out the window. The more he looks at their face, the more he sees some weird similarities between them and Kobra.

“Cold?”

Kobra’s head snaps up at the words. Poison’s single word seemed to have broken Kobra out of his reverie.

“I guess.”

There’s a bit of shuffling. Party Poison unbuttons their black jacket, and sets it on Kobra’s lap. He’s staring at them, completely wide eyed.

“I’m not cold. I always run a bit, well…”

“Warm.”

“Yeah.” Poison hums. “How’d you know?”

“I can… I can feel your body heat from here.” Kobra slips on the jacket. It doesn’t quite meet his wrists, but it hangs off of him almost hilariously. The kid may be tall, but he’s pretty boney. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Another silence lapses. Jet Star takes his eyes off the road and gazes back at Kobra. Their eyes met, and Jet Star can’t identify what emotion seems to be threatening to leak from his poker face. 

Jet Star looks back to the road.

-

They stop at Tommy Chow Mein’s. They don’t have enough gas to keep going, and it would take too long and too many resources to try and hunt up some gas from the abandoned gas stations around here. Besides, Ghoul keeps complaining about needing to take a piss.

They pull up right towards the front. Ghoul launches himself out of the car and begins to sprint inside of Tommy’s. Poison takes their time, sauntering after Ghoul, gazing all around them.

As Kobra Kid begins to follow after them, Jet Star places a hand on his shoulder. Kobra glances at him, his aviators now plastered over his eyes, probably to try and make him even more unreadable. “Something up?”

“I was about to ask you that.” Jet Star lets go of his shoulder and digs around in one of his pockets. He didn’t used to smoke much, but it’s become a small, guilty pleasure he picked up from his second crew. He lights the top and takes a small drag. “What’s with you and Party Poison, huh? You act like you’re seeing a ghost.”

Kobra rubs his shoulder. “Maybe I am.”

Jet Star blinks at his words. Kobra Kid straightens, his eyes flicking from Jet towards the doors Party Poison just entered. He takes a deep breath.

“Back in Battery City, well, I told you that I had a twin, yeah?” Kobra rubs his nose. “Well, we were fraternal twins. We got different genetics and stuff. The BLi pills worked a lot differently on us. They worked perfectly fine on me, but on my sibling? They just straight up didn’t work.”

Kobra rubs his jeans with his palms. “They say their brain chemistry was all fucked up, or something. But the pills just didn’t work. They’d send them different pills like every month, and none of them ever fucking worked. So they began to become rebellious, because they could see what hellhole we were living in. They could see that BLi was fucked up, that feeling things weren't so terrible, that maybe those pills were bad.

“They started sneaking into the Lobby and shit and their rebellion began to get on BLi’s radar. One time, they disappeared for three days when we were eleven. They came back, but by that time, my parents had reported them to BLi. It was the last straw, and BLi took them away.”

Kobra Kid presses his palms into his eyes. “BLi literally kidnapped them, right in front of me. They busted down the house door and pulled them away, and they kicked and screamed the whole fucking time. I always thought BLi had just straight up killed them, because they don’t bother re-educating people who have multiple infractions and whose brains are all out of whack.”

Kobra Kid looks up, staring Jet Star in the eye. “It’s been four years since I’ve seen them. But I can still recognise them, I still know their face. And…. and…”

Jet Star doesn’t need Kobra Kid to spell it out for him. He can piece these things together, and can see where Kobra is going. He doesn’t intervene, however. Something tells him Kobra needs to say these words more than Jet needs to hear them.

“Party Poison is my missing sibling.” There’s tears slipping down Kobra Kid’s cheeks. He grabs Jet Starms hand, almost desperately. “That’s them, I know that’s them.”

“I believe you.” And Jet does, he really does. “Do you think they recognise you, too?”

Kobra seems to freeze, like he never even considered that option. He swallows, hard. “Probably not. I mean, I am a guy now. I’ve got new pronouns and a new haircut and I’m just… Different.”

Jet hums. “Are you going to tell them?”

Kobra Kid gazes back through the doors. They can hear Tommy yelling, though they’re not sure why. Probably Ghoul- Tommy isn’t exactly enchanted with that kid.

“Yeah,” Kobra decides. “I will.”

Jet Star gives him what he hopes is a reassuring shoulder pat and a smile. “Kobra, I’m really happy you found your sibling.”

“Yeah.” Kobra rubs his eyes, brushing away some tears. “Yeah, me too.”

-

They roll up towards the diner long after the sun has disappeared over the horizon. Fun Ghoul is very obviously trying not to fall asleep, Party Poison is sitting on the edge of their seat, listening intensely to the rock music Jet Star decided to play half way through their drive, and Kobra is watching Party Poison just as intensely as they are listening.

Jet Star always forgets just how huge the desert really is. Zones stretch for miles and miles, and it can take hours to drive through one even at top speed. 

They slip out of the truck and make their way inside. Party Poison is watching everyone and everything, staying completely alert. 

“There’s only two rooms, really. It’s kind of a small diner.” Jet Star waves his hands, pointing vaguely in the direction of the places he’s about to name. “Obviously, this here is the actual dining area, and is covered with windows, so it’s exposed and just not good for sleeping in. Over there is the kitchen, so again, not really good for sleeping in. The other part is the warehouse which is where we store all the shit and supplies we find. And then there’s the break room, which is where I sleep, and the old office, which is where Kobra and Ghoul sleep.”

Poison takes it all in, watching the place with a sharpness that says they’re looking for something. They tap their chin. “So we’ll have to share rooms?”

Kobra’s eyes light up at the idea. Jet Star knows exactly what he’s thinking- they could share a room together.

“Yeah. Ghoul and Kobra share a room together, but if you don’t want to sleep with me, we can all shuffle around.” Jet shrugs cooly. “It’s no big deal- none of us have all that many possessions to move around.”

“Ah, no need.” They slip their hands in their pockets. “This is more than enough.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want to dorm with maybe Kobra or…”

“Nope. I don’t wanna raise a fuss. And I don’t mind sleeping with you.” They start to move down the hallways towards the two rooms. “C’mon, let me see the attractions.”

Kobra Kid dims a bit but remains silent. Jet Star sighs, knowing damn well that kid won’t speak up for himself. He’ll fight and spill blood for what he believes in, has no qualms standing up to men bigger than him if he thinks he’s in the right, but he’s not selfish. And Jet’s sure Kobra thinks it would be selfish to try and force Party Poison into rooming with him.

Jet Star sighs but doesn’t intervene. This situation is all in Kobra’s hands.

-

It’s late at night. They managed to scrounge around some blankets for Poison to sleep on until they find something better. They don’t seem to particularly care,

Kobra and Ghoul have gone to bed. It’s been a long day, and Ghoul’s still achy from that blaster shot. Kobra doesn’t say a word to Party Poison, and Jet Star’s beginning to doubt his resolve.

So, this leaves Jet Star and Party Poison to their own devices. 

Jet Star decides now is a good time to try and get to know each other.

“So,” he begins. Party Poison is laying face down in the blanket pile, but he’s pretty sure they’re not asleep. “You just left Battery City, huh?”

“Yeah, not much tying me there.” 

“Really? What about a family?”

They scoff. “Car accident, four years ago. Gave me amnesia and killed my family. Even if they were alive, I don’t remember them.”

Jet Star blinks at the flippancy of the statement. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

Poison shrugs. “No big deal. What about you? Are these kids your brothers or something?”

“Sort of.” Jet Star is beginning to think he doesn’t really like this conversation, because he’s still focused on Party Poison’s admittance to amnesia. He knows what that means. “Not by blood.”

“Ah.” 

They don’t speak again. Jet Star decides to leave it at that, and turns his head to stare at the cracked roof. Party Poison seems to have been completely bleached. It’s a process Jet Star’s only heard about from Show Pony, who has plenty of horror stories from their undercover operations in the city. But he’s heard enough to get the gist.

They completely wash out a person’s soul and destroy any memories that person has. It turns them into a blank slate, completely empty to be reprogrammed however BLi saw fit. When medication didn’t seem to be the answer to Party Poison’s rebellion, they must have decided to pull their last resort.

It’s common for those who have been bleached to be given some sort of fake story to hide the fact that they were bleached. Usually, it’s some sob story that some rogue killjoys killed all their family in some fashion, to get those people to hate killjoys. 

Jet Star knows this means Poison doesn’t remember Kobra Kid.

-

Kobra doesn’t even blink an eye the next morning when Jet Star tells him the news. He just sinks into Jet’s bed, listening to the sounds of Ghoul trying to find Party Poison new clothes. It’s not going well.

“Oh,” he finally breathes.

“What are you going to do?”

He just sits there, thinking. He looks absolutely tired, his eyes holding flecks of something terribly ancient. Ghoul has them too. Party Poison as well. Jet wonders what they have all seen that have touched them so terribly that the windows to their soul became frosted over in the aftermath.

“I always dreamed of seeing my sibling again, you know, even though I thought they were dead. But I never thought they’d forget me.” Kobra wipes his face, scrubbing absently. “I guess I just won’t tell them.”

“What? This is the perfect time to tell them.”

“They’ve been living their life for the past four years without me. Besides, they probably won’t even think I’m telling the truth, if they think their family’s dead.” He sighs. “They already have an identity. There’s no point in dredging up a past they don’t even remember.”

“But…” Jet grabs his hair, completely perplexed by this. “Don’t you want them to know?”

“Yes.” He pauses. “But not if it will do them more harm than any good.”

Jet Star doesn’t even know what to say. He just sucks in a deep breath and rubs his forehead. “Okay, fine. I won’t tell them either. But Kobra…”

There’s a loud crash. Party Poison is groaning and Ghoul is shouting explicatives. Jet Star moves towards the door, but hesitated to leave.

“If my sister came back from the dead with no memory, you bet your ass I’d tell her every story I know.”

-

Two weeks after Party Poison arrives and Jet Star gets a radio call.

“It’s Dr. D!” Ghoul shouts. “He wants to talk to you!”

Kobra Kid and Party Poison are checking out and tuning up the old pick up. From what Jet managed to gather, it seems to be a painfully awkward time for both of them. Jet Star snatches the radio from Ghoul’s hands, and shoos him away. If Dr. D is calling only for him, then he’s not sure he wants Ghoul to hear everything the doc has to say.

“Hey, mad doc, whatcha want?”

“I have a proposition to make,” Dr. D simply states, a little too plainly for Jet Star’s comfort. “And I’d like your whole crew to hear it, in person. You think y’all can manage getting your asses to my radio station tomorrow?”

“We’re not your subordinates,” Jet grumbles. “We’re not just gonna drop everything and run to you.”

“You got something better to do?”

Of course not, but it truly is the principle of the matter. “Ah, you know how it is. Listen, we’ll try to pencil you in, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Oh, I understand.” Dr. D almost sounds annoyed. He doesn’t like it when people don’t do exactly as he says, but there’s something almost fond to this tone as well. “Well, hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow. Remember, bring everyone. This is important.”

Before Jet can say anything, Dr. D hangs up. Jet lets go of the radio and sighs. Whenever Dr. Death Defying comes calling, it’s never for a good reason, and he already has an idea as to what the good doc desires from them.

“I know you’re there still, Ghoul.”

Jet’s bedroom door cracks open, Ghoul gives him a toothy smile. “Well, we’ve got an old man to hagger.”

-

Show Pony slams the radio shack door open before Jet Star could even lift his hand to knock. They lean slutily against the doorframe, one leg perched up as they place a hand delicately on their face. “Hello, boys! Finally here to claim me as your willing bride?”

Every single one of them gave Show Pony a deadpan expression. They drop their leg from the door and immediately, their attention is drawn to Party Poison. There’s a small pause, as if Show Pony is taking in their appearance- they’re wearing something of Fun Ghoul’s, which means they’re dressed in rags and look like they walked out of Hot Topic. The whole gang made them change from that weird black outfit they first appeared in, since it gave everyone the creeps.

“Well, well, who’s this handsome man?” Pony croons, locking an arm around Poison’s shoulder and practically throwing them onto Poison. “Have I died and gone to heaven, because I’d love to be carried off by you, angel.”

“Show Pony, please refrain yourself from sexually harassing my friends,” Jet Star warns. Jet could practically feel the rage emanating from Kobra Kid, and tried to suppress the laugh in his throat. He still has some protective sibling instincts.

“Spoilsport!” Pony sticks their tongue. However, they do slowly detangle themself from Party Poison, who seems utterly confused. “If you’re not here to either become my boyfriend or deliver me one, then what are you doing here?”

“Dr. D called us up,” Ghoul states. “Said he’s got a proposition.”

Show Pony’s face lit up like a menorah. “Oh! I see. I guess I won’t stop you from getting the talk with our resident doc.”

They usher them all inside, although they do grab Poison’s arm as they begin to enter. “Hey, when you’re done talking to the good doc, I’d be happy to hang out with you after and maybe see if we have anything in common between us.” They lean in close, a sharp smile on their face. “I’d love to get to know you… personally…”

Kobra Kid elbows Show Pony in their ribs and yanks Party Poison away. At that, Jet Star does laugh.

“I see my favourite teenage bombs have arrived,” the doc calls. “And of course, the illustrious and aptly named Jet _Star._ ”

Jet Star rolls his eyes. “Yeah, we're here now. What exactly did you want from us?”

“Straight to the point.” Dr. D taps his fingers on his arm chair. “Well, if you insist. The proposition is simple. I want you all to become true killjoys. I’ve been trying to form a group who I think has the true potential to bring down BLi. Pony, Cherri, and I have plenty of information to create missions we think will weaken BLi, and we’re wanting a group that will maybe start to stoke some fire into the revolution the original Killjoys tried to pursue.”

Dr. D stares directly at Jet Star. “And that group is you.”

Jet Star immediately argues. “What the hell are you talking about? Killjoys?”

“Yes. I think all of you can do a lot of good for this desert. All of you have a drive to help people, don’t you? To make sure no one ever hurts as much you have?”

“Yeah, but-“

“I want you to become killjoys. I want us to bring back the revolution people the original Killjoys died for. It’s time someone challenges BLi, and you all are the perfect people to do it. You’ve all witnessed first hand the atrocities BLi is capable of, and you all have varying skills that will mesh together to create the perfect combination of vital skills.”

Dr. D glances at each one of them. “What do you all say?”

“Of course.”

Every head turns towards Party Poison. Their hands are closed into fists, and there’s an odd fire burning in their retinas. “I left the city to become something better. The intention was always to become a killjoy.”

Dr. D smiles. “I’m afraid we haven’t met before. Party Poison, right?”

“Yes.” There’s something lurking within them, something that makes Jet Star feel like he’s being swallowed by an inferno. “It’s a name the entire desert is going to learn.”

Kobra Kid hesitantly steps next to Party Poison. “I want to help people. If this is how I can help, then I’ll become a killjoy, too.” Of course.

Fun Ghoul hums. “Well, you know I have personal interests in this. I’ve always admired the original Killjoys.” There’s something sad in his eyes at the mention of the group, something melancholic. “They died for this revolution. It’s time we made sure that their death means something. I’m in.”

Jet Star wants to scream. “No, no! None of us are in! We are not going to become killjoys!”

“Seems you’re outnumbered.” Jet Star desperately wants to punch that smile off of Dr. D. Instead, he takes a deep breath and tries again. He ignores the smug grin and turns back to the teenagers next to him.

“Listen. Being a killjoy is dangerous. I need you guys to understand this. You hear about them all the time on the radio, about how cool and awesome they are and shit. But starting a revolution? You have to be willing to die for it. And if you all follow this path, you will. Killjoys lead very, very dangerous lives, and they’re often very short. You will die in a gunfight, you will be murdered. It won’t be peaceful.”

Jet sucks in another breath. He looks at all of their faces and all he can see is his sister, who desperately wanted to change the world and was shot by her own peers. He thinks about his second crew, who was killed after only two years of operation, slaughtered for wanting to do the right thing.

“This type of life isn’t a game, isn’t something you can just think is neat and join. You’re joining a rebellion. You’re going to have BLi paint a target on your back, and if you’re good enough at playing hero, you’re going to have hundreds of people wanting to kill you. And there are people even in the desert who hate killjoys and will try to stop you with every force necessary. This isn’t easy. This won’t be fun.”

Fun Ghoul puts his hands on his hips. “Yeah, yeah, there’s a shit ton of risks. Living in the desert is risky by itself! No one here is promised to live forever! Why not die making a statement?”

“We just want to help people.” Kobra’s voice is quiet but strong. “And this is our chance. BLi needs to answer for their crimes. It’s time we make them pay.”

Party Poison smiles. “It’s time to take a chance.”

“Everyone’s made their choice.” Dr. D watches Jet Star with an impassive expression. “So what do you say?”

“I’m not doing this for you,” he hisses, low enough so only he can hear. Louder, he adds, “If my whole crew is going to throw away their lives, then I guess I’ll make sure they won’t end up dead in two weeks.”

Dr. D smiles. “Let’s begin.”

-

“These are children.” It’s only Jet Star and Dr. D, now. Jet Star made sure the others were asleep before slipping out to harass the doc. Show Pony invited them all to stay the night, since the drive back home would take several hours.

“Maybe so.”

“You knew the original Killjoys. They were grown adults.”

“They were your age.”

Jet Star takes a deep breath. “I’m twenty three. Ghoul is fourteen. There’s a huge difference here. You can’t expect them to be heroes. You’re sending them to their death.”

“I think you’ll find them rather capable. Don’t underestimate your own crew.”

“I’m not. I’m just being real. You want to push these children into a war.”

“They are children of war.” He pushes a finger in his chest. “Just like you. The war has always been there, and maybe they’ve always wanted to join. They have a spark, Jet. Don’t extinguish it because you’re afraid.”

“You know damn well why I’m afraid. The original Killjoys all fucking died except for Mad Gear. I had been in a killjoy group and they all died. My sister tried to be a killjoy and she died. These kids are not hardened veterans, they’re not adult desert borns who spent their entire lives fighting. They’re kids.”

“Maybe that’s why they’ll succeed.”

“Doc-“

“They all agreed to this, through no manipulation on my part. You must respect the wishes of your peers. Besides, they have you. You’re not a child. You have a shit ton of experience that your past peers did not, that you did not have.”

“It’s just not fair.”

“No, it’s not.”

-

A couple days later, and Dr. Death Defying decides to send them on their first mission. There’s a patrol of Dracs that always patrols on the west outer edge of zone two. Go and kill them all.

By the time they drive over there, the Dracs should be out and about. Dr. D hands them a gasoline can and wishes them luck. Jet Star whispers curses to him when no one is looking before he gets into the white truck.

It’s the first time Jet Star’s seen Party Poison fight since they met. They have a gun now, snatched from the body of a Drac the day they arrived. But Jet knows they have that rusty pocket knife tucked in their front pocket, ready to use whenever they do feel.

Antagonising the Dracs brought an intense anxiety over Jet Star. It shouldn’t have- there’s no exterminators this time, just a simple patrol of brain dead Dracs. Still, his heart is pulsing and it’s not from the adrenaline of a fight.

The Dracs try to split them all up, try to corner them and separate them, but it doesn’t quite work out. They’re stupid, frankly, without a true central leader, and there’s not enough of them to make up for their lacking brain power. Still, it does manage to split them in half, though that may simply be because Fun Ghoul and Kobra Kid began to drift away then from any cause by the Dracs.

That left Jet Star and Party Poison to team up. Party Poison has proved themself to be a very, very capable fighter with a sniper like trigger finger that rivals Jet Star. For someone who just left the city, they seemed to have a natural ability to fight.

When Jet is preoccupied with the Dracs, he does find himself watching Party Poison and their peculiar fighting style. They’re completely fluid in the battlefield, and it reminds him of the graceful ballerina type dance his mom tried to teach him once. Yet there’s a viciousness in the way they fight, something a bit… sadistic. They fire just a couple of shots too many when they aim to kill. They seem to enjoy getting into hand to hand combat and Jet Star’s watched that little switchblade rip through skin more than once during this fight.

Jet Star’s stomach does a couple of flips when he watches Party Poison jam their knife through one of the Dracs’ skulls. They immediately yank it back out and then stab it through his other eye. Jet adverts his eyes and keeps shooting.

They find themselves back to back a couple of times, and Party Poison definitely protects Jet just as Jet protects them. They move together pretty well, and they work rather fluidly.

The rapid fire sound of gunshots catches his attention again. He glances over, prepared to shoot what he assumed was a couple of straggling Dracs headed their way. 

Party Poison has a knife sunk deep into a Drac’s chest. They have a foot squarely planted over his heart and are leaning down a bit, their gun firing as they shoot round after round into their head and neck. There’s a smouldering smoke beginning to wager through the air.

Jet Star pockets his gun and rushes up to Party Poison. “Hey! Quite it! He’s already dead!”

They either don’t hear him or they elect to ignore him, because they don’t stop. They stomp their foot on the switchblade, forcing it deeper into his chest.

Jet Star wraps his arms around them and picks them up and off the corpse. Years of labour from simply living in the desert had made him rather ridiculously strong, and Party Poison isn’t exactly heavy. It’s like picking up a few feathers.

Or maybe like a very, very pissed off bird. Poison’s feathers are clearly ruffled and they squawk indignantly, wriggling around in his hold to try and escape.

“Calm down,” Jet Star huffs. There’s blood on Party Poison’s cheek, and Jet Star knows it‘s not theirs. “You need to calm the fuck down.”

Party Poison’s glare is as venomous as their name suggests. Still, Jet Star does not let go, even when they begin to stop struggling.

The sounds of the firefight begins to slow. It was only a matter of time before they managed to win, and the idea that they’re almost done does help sedate Jet Star’s nerves.

After a few moments of silence, where the only sound that really registers is the puff of Party Poison’s breath, Jet Star quietly sets them back down. Party Poison immediately wrenches away, spinning on their heels to properly face Jet Star. “Do not touch me!”

“Don’t be unnecessarily cruel.” Jet Star points to the body. “There’s no need to bring more harm to the dead than necessary.”

Poison rolls their eyes. “Tch. Don’t killjoys burn the bodies of Dracs?”

“Yes, so we can make sure BLi won’t reanimate them. It’s to free their souls.”

“It doesn’t work.”

Jet Star wants an elaboration, but Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul come bounding into the scene. They’re high giving each other and smiling wide. 

“We did it!” Ghoul hollers. “We’re fucking killjoys!”

“Success!” Kobra pumps a fist.

Jet Star’s torn. Do they understand that they were in a fucking battlefield? Do they understand that they just killed? Celebrating the loss of lives?

He sucks in a deep breath. “Yeah, lets just hurry up and burn these bodies before the clean up crew arrives.”

-

They burn the bodies.

Poison watches them work. Jet was a little more than a little hesitant to let them near fire after watching them desecrate the corpse, so he doesn’t let them help.

Poison simply stands there, watching. There’s an unreadable expression perched on their face as they watch the bodies begin to burn, watching the flames flicker in the dimming of the sun's light, as the skin of the bodies begin to char and turn into flaky black charcoal, as the clothes begin to melt, as all become ash.

The fire reflects in their eyes. 

-

Dr. D happily sends them out on more missions. Show Pony managed to snatch a file over the times of Drac patrols for the next week, and Dr. D’s been sending them out to decimate them before the Dracs can cause any harm.

It’s relatively easy work. The Dracs are brain dead and continue to have no exterminator commanders. They’re easy pickings, and it’s just dwindling the numbers of soldiers BLi has. 

Jet Star hates every minute of this. He hates being a killjoy, he hates slaughtering so many fucking Dracs. He’s had to do it before, yes, and so have Kobra and Ghoul. But those instances were out of self defense- they never actively sought out a fight. 

It’s different now, and Jet Star hates all this carnage they’re spilling, this massive risk they keep taking.

Jet Star still can’t place a proper opinion on Party Poison as time begins to pass. The kid is only fifteen, and something seems to be pretty fucked up with their upraising after separating from Kobra Kid, considering the way they fight. Jet can’t really find it in himself to hate the kid.

But they’re just so needlessly violent. They keep fucking up corpses more than they need to, stabbing them with a knife that doesn’t need to be used so many times or with gun shots that don’t matter because after the second shot the Drac was already lifeless. Jet Star isn’t a pacifist like Cherri Cola, but that shit makes his intestines knot.

They have some sort of fucked up bloodlust. Jet doesn’t know how to get them to stop.

-

The desert isn’t very entranced with them, at first. There’s plenty of whispers about them, laughs and jokes made at their expense. _“Aw, the kids are trying to play hero!”_

There’s plenty of doubt everywhere they turn. Kobra Kid? That crash queen who keeps losing every race he’s in? He’s trying to become a hero when he can’t even win a race?

Fun Ghoul? That creepy kid who sells bombs on the black market? He’s supposed to be a hero when he couldn’t even find a crew for the longest time because he was so fucking weird?

Jet Star? That desert born whose crews keep dying off? That poor kid is supposed to save us all when he can’t even save his own peers?

Party Poison? Who the hell is that? We’re supposed to put our trust and faith into some no name killjoy-wannabe?

Jet Star ignores the jeers. He never wanted to be a hero, anyway.

-

The true call to fame doesn’t happen for a few months after they began their crusade. Dr. D seems to be very pleased with their work- with their carnage. They’ve proved themselves capable fighters in Dr. D’s eyes, and now the next steps in his plan to transform them into killjoys are commencing.

There’s always been trade wars going on between the juvie halls and the desert killjoys. Although they both believe in destroying BLi, they have completely different ways of showing it. The juvie halls prefer to be sneaky and crumble BLi from the inside- it’s why they stay inside Battery City. Killjoys prefer to be loud and to fight with brute force.

The two factions often clash. Juvie halls like to sneak things to the desert people and the desert people will sneak items only found or made in the desert. They’ll trade bombs and medicine and various other delicacies, but sometimes their ideologies clash and make trades stutter to a halt.

So, it’s up to Jet Star and his motley crew of teenage bombs to try and convince the people who run the underground to get back to trading. It’s up to them to spread word to the Killjoys that unity is necessary.

Dr. D sends Kobra Kid and Party Poison into the Lobby, and keeps Jet Star and Ghoul with some of the Killjoys. The idea is that Ghoul and Jet were desert raised and would be trusted by the desert people, and Party Poison and Kobra Kid could convince other city people like them.

A while ago, Kobra managed to snatch a motorcycle from a Drac patrol. He’s been learning how to drive it since, and he’s finally managed to get it down. Jet Star sends Kobra and Poison off, anxiety fluttering in his chest.

He knows BLi has become extremely lenient on the wall between the City and the desert. As long as those who arrive keep to the Lobby, to slum in the neon district, then no one cares. Keep the colours contained.

Still, Jet Star’s nervous for his crew. He doesn’t pray, but he does desperately hope that they’ll be safe.

Jet Star and Kobra Kid try to talk to the gang that mainly deals with trading with the Underground, the Ritalin Rats. They don’t take either of them very seriously, of course- “What? You guys are trying to preach to me unity when you lost all your crews and you were outcasted from the desert, a society based on being a misfit? Please.”

It takes time to calm Ghoul back down. The Ritalin Rats laugh at them and kick them back out. Jet Star hates killjoys like them, who can’t see the greater picture, who think that being a killjoy is all fun and games. They know the power they hold as the desert’s resident traders with the Underground, the only people willing to slip in and out again and again from Battery City. They just don’t care.

It boils Jet Star’s blood, but they can’t do anything more. Ghoul is seething on the ride home, and Jet Star can’t help but wonder how Kobra Kid and Party Poison are doing.

The question gets quickly answered.

The radio suddenly turns to static, the low hum of Paramore fading away. A new voice fills the speakers, this one easily recognisable.

“This is Party Poison! You know, from the miraculous Fab Four? Well, I’ve got a message for all you assholes, in the desert and in Battery City!

“We all have the same principal goal here- we all want to destroy BLi. This wretched, parasitic company that longs to destroy the colours we are drenched in. This company will not hesitate to bleach you of the very things that make us rebels, of the dreams to protect this little identity we forged for ourselves. BLi doesn’t care if you're a killjoy or a juvie hall, they don't care how you think they should be destroyed. Because they’ll kill you without a second's hesitation, all of us.

“Don’t you all understand? We’re all soldiers on the same side of this war. BLi sees all of us as the enemy and won’t stop until all of our colours are bleeding out like the spilled blood that’ll be shed. We have to remain unified, we must remain working cohesively. If we allow ourselves to be split, then we will become completely useless. A cobra’s body can not function without a head, and a head can not function without a body.

“Fire can not burn without fuel. This revolution will fail if we choose to wage a war against our own brothers. We all want to burn BLi to the ground, turn it into ashes to spit on. But we’re only burning each other by not working together! An individual person can only do so much! But with our two factions unified, we can cause untold damage.

“We must work together. So shed your yellow and shed your greed. If you want to destroy BLi, then you can not afford to destroy your fellow peers. Remember, you all have guns. You need to figure out who you really want to pull the trigger on.” 

There’s a pause. “What are you going to die for?”

The voice cuts out. A stream of static replaces them, yet the words reverberate throughout the car. Not a word passes between Fun Ghoul and Jet Star, but they do exchange eye contact. The words manage to fill up most of the space in Jet Star’s head, and for some reason, he’s filled with excitement. He feels pumped, ready to take down a Drac patrol.

-

Apparently, Party Poison and Kobra Kid didn’t have much luck on the other side. So, Party Poison, being completely rational, stole the radio from the gang they were trying to negotiate with- the Youngbloods- and then locked themself in a closet before hacking into a public channel.

The Youngbloods were fucking pissed, until they started to actually listen to Poison’s words. They eventually pulled Poison out of the closet, and after a few moments of talking to themselves, decided that working together was important. They all agreed to start the trade back up.

When Jet Star and Ghoul get back a couple of hours later and Kobra’s Kid related the story back to them, Jet received a radio transmission. The Ritalin Rats agreed to start talking to the Youngbloods again. 

Party Poison smiles at that, their teeth gleaming in the light of the radio shack.

-

It’s Party Poison’s first call to fame, and that radio message does seem to stop a few whispers of gossip in their tracks. The people listened to their voice, and most importantly, listened to their words. In the months that follow that incident, trade wars between the juvie hall kids and the killjoys die almost to none.

Dr. D is absolutely ecstatic by the reactions. “It seems, Party Poison, you may have just found your calling.”

Dr. D was desperate to find a killjoy who had a way with words like him. The desert would listen to him, always- he’s had them wrapped around his finger ever since he first appeared, well over a decade ago. But the desert needs to see someone acting on those hypnotic words, they need to see someone who isn’t all talk, who has plenty bite.

“You’ll be the face of the revolution!” Dr. D cheers. It’s late at night, and everyone is supposed to be in bed. Jet Star, however, noticed that Poison was still missing from their shared guest room and knew Dr. D was probably the source. He snuck around the shack to find them in the makeshift kitchen.

Party Poison was watching Dr. D with an impassive expression. They haven’t developed much in the way of a personality, not yet. They’re still very much a blank slate, first absorbing the world before deciding what sort of character to turn themself into.

“The desert is going to latch on to you. The Fab Four is, of course, important to the cause and the revolution. But you’re going to bring about a revolution, you’re going to be the spokesperson that gets your crew popular.” There’s an excited gleam in Dr. D’s eyes. “You’re going to make a wonderful hero.”

Party Poison shrugs. “Seems you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“You’re a fresh breacher. You don’t understand how much and how often the Underground and the killjoys fight. They hate each other, but you managed to sing a lullaby of unity that made them almost completely forget their hatred. You’re important, kid. You’re going to make a wonderful leader, a perfect symbol to this rebellion.”

Dr. D seems to pause. Jet Star is admittedly seething at this point- there’s so many fucking issues, Jet Star feels like he could write a whole novel. Dr. D wants to shove the title of being the leader of a revolution on a child who literally just escaped from the claws of the very people they’re fighting against? He wants to make a hero out of such a violent and angry child? And he’s completely disregarding the importance of the rest of the Fab Four!

“You know,” Dr. D begins, slyly. “Your white hair has faded back to its roots. Is there a certain colour you’re thinking about dying?”

Poison regardes Dr. D suspiciously. “I’m not modifying my body for you. I’ll speak my words, and I’ll fight in this revolution, but none of this is for you. I’m going to be a killjoy, and I’m going to do so by my definition of one.” Poison stands up from their chair and crosses their arms. 

Dr. D rolls his eyes. Jet Star knows Party Poison’s words dig under his skin- he doesn’t like people out right defying him. It’s a hypocritical fact that Jet Star thinks about whenever he preaches about freedom. “Of course. But do remember the power you’re about to hold.”

The laughing sound Poison makes vaguely unsettled even Dr. D. “Oh, I’ve never forgotten.”

-

Public opinion slowly begins to shift. There are still those who doubt, who believe the Fab Four to be nothing more than frauds or an group of stupid teenagers. But for the most part, people are becoming much more receptive.

Party Poison begins to snatch the power of the radio waves from Dr. D’s unshakeable hold. They twist their words into songs of rebellion, into screams of revolutions. It’s a hypnotic melody that seems to enrapture most of the desert.

As time goes on, it becomes more and more apparent that Party Poison’s words are more than just words. They become known as the Fabulous Four, a band of teenage killjoys hellbent of destroying BLi with their bare hands. It’s always funny to Jet Star, because he got stuck babysitting two fifteen year olds and a fourteen year old, and he got roped into being called a teenager again. He’s twenty four. 

The desert begins to realise that it’s not all talk. That every ounce of passion dripping from Party Poison’s lips isn’t a lie, and that their sweet whispers of coups and mutiny are actual promises instead of simply dreams. 

Slowly, the desert opens arms towards them like a blooming cactus’s petals.

-

In the midst of all this, all this sweeping popularity, Party Poison suddenly disappears. They stole Kobra Kid’s motorcycle right before he was supposed to be due for a race in zone three. Kobra’s been getting better at being a crash queen, and has been winning most of the races he’s been a part of as of late.

No one notices Party Poison disappearing until hours after, when they’re reconvening for dinner. “Where’s Poison?”

Jet doesn’t look up. “Wasn’t he with Ghoul?”

Ghoul pops in almost immediately after, laughing. “Guys! I just figured out how to give my bombs a bit more punch! Their detonation range is huge now! Billy Buttermilk ain’t got fucking shit on me, now! Ha!”

“Hey! Ghoul, you seen Poison?”

“Huh?” Ghoul tosses one of his bombs in the air and catches it. He wipes a bit of ash from his face and squints. “Weren’t they with Kobra?”

There’s a pause.

“Oh!” Ghoul nods. “Poison said they had an errand to run!”

“What? When? Why?”

Ghoul glances outside. The sky’s turning from pink to a deep blue. “Like, noon? Maybe, I wasn’t really paying attention. I don’t really know why they left, just that they had to.”

Kobra peeks out the window and winces. “They took my bike!”

“Fuck, we have to find them.” Jet’s anxiety is spiking. “If they were just running an errand, it shouldn’t have taken them so long!”

“Ah, they’ll be back by morning! It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve been missing in the night.”

“What?”

“Oh? Don’t you guys hear them?” Ghoul shrugs. “They don’t sleep well and they like to take the truck out for nightly joyrides. Sometimes I go with them.”

Jet rubs his face. No wonder they’ve been burning gas quicker than he anticipated. “We’ll deal with that later. Where’d they go?”

“I told you, I don’t remember.” Ghoul rolls his eyes. “It’s night time, anyway. Just wait till morning. If they ain’t back, then it’s time to panic.”

Jet Star sucks in a deep breath. There really isn’t a point in trying to find someone when it’s dark as hell. The desert is huge, anyway. “Okay, fine.”

“What if they’re in trouble?” Kobra appeared even more anxious than Jet. “We can't just leave them.”

“They left us. They’re smart enough to survive a night alone. And they’re a good enough fighter.” Jet sighs again. “Just. We’ll go look for them later.”

-

Party Poison doesn’t reappear that morning.

In fact, they don’t appear again for another two weeks. Dr. D refuses to send out a transmission that they’ve died. “You know better than I do that kid won’t let their soul get dragged to hell until they’ve raised enough hell to be satisfied, and they still have a hunger in their eyes.”

The three of them wait, torn between wanting to mourn that asshole or wanting to curse them. Where the hell are they? Do they dare believe they’re still alive or should they offer something to the Witch?

Jet Star isn’t religious, not anymore. He hasn’t said a real prayer in well over ten years. Yet on the fourteenth day of their disappearance, after listening to Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul argue over and over about if they’re dead, he pulls out his rosary and he unclamped the Star of David around his neck and he prays two prayers, possibly to the same God. He lets the words drip out of his mouth, hoping that they’ll reach someone, that someone will listen, be it the Master of the Universe or someone else.

He prays that they should live to be able to redeem whatever sins they seem to carry. There’s something about Party Poison, about their inclination towards violence against even the dead, that maybe they have a past not as peaceful as Kobra hopes for. And if They can not provide that, then he hopes that they are at least at peace.

-

The next day, the door to the diner swings open.

Fun Ghoul and Kobra Kid are playing a game of cards, maybe War. They’ve set aside their bickering, as they often are able to do- they never fight much, and when they do, they always pretend it never happened. It’s odd, but Jet doesn’t dare intervene.

Jet Star is sitting next to Ghoul, idly counting out their remaining carbons. He’s also watching Ghoul and his hand, quietly thinking about the ways he ought to be playing, but since Ghoul is terrible at most things that don’t involve somehow intensive amounts of property damage, he usually does the opposite of what Jet Star would have done.

They’re sitting in the diner, in a booth. The radio is on a table next to them, pumping out Mad Gear’s latest EP. Jet Star’s always been impressed with that guy, able to turn their wrath against BLi into rock and roll for the masses. 

The door slams open. It startles all of them- Ghoul even drops his cards. They immediately twist their bodies, and Jet’s hands twitch towards his gun. All of them have their guns on them.

The first thing Jet registers is the colour red.

The second thing he registers is a small child.

Party Poison waltzed in, with an airy, breezy demeanor. They seem to be limping, ever so slightly, and while their jacket covers most of their back, their shirt rides up just enough for him to see a peek of mottled flesh. They don’t even glance at the rest of their crew, instead they just head straight towards the kitchen.

There’s a moment of pure silence as they all seem to try to process what the hell they just saw. As Poison disappears into the kitchen, Ghoul begins to push at Jet. “Did you all just see that?”

Another pause. They all immediately scramble out of the booth and scurry towards the kitchen.

Kobra Kid makes it there first, but he doesn’t enter. He pushes Fun Ghoul back, holding his arms to block the entrance. He puts a finger to his lips, then nods towards Party Poison. _Watch._

Party Poison either doesn’t notice the crowd of boys or doesn’t care. Their back faces the rest of their crew, and Jet suddenly remembers the small child they had carried in with them. The child was perched on the counter, crying gently. 

Party Poison rolled a shoulder and awkwardly patted the child’s head. They seemed to be trying to comfort the kid. After a moment, they turned around. 

Jet Star blinked at the sight of them. New scars littered their face, one jagged line making a horizontal slit down their cheek and through their eyebrow. They looked like they had just stepped out of a fire, covered in ash. Parts of their arms appeared almost charred, black scabs dusting the places where their rolled jacket sleeves don’t touch. 

In the afternoon sun that gleams down through the broken window, their hair seems to glow unnaturally. It’s been months since they first met, and their hair has begun to grow out from the fuzz on their head. The red of their longer locks appears almost like fire, glowing luminously in the light. In their eyes, Jet Star sees a fire not unlike the star that casts its beams upon them. There’s something a bit more hollow about them.

“Someone should clean up that kid,” Poison finally states. “But it’s not gonna be me. I already saved his life. I’m going to take a nap.”

They flip their hair out of their face. As they move, shadows cast about odd angles, and Jet Star suddenly sees how thin their cheeks have become. He can only imagine how brittle the fifteen days with no food nor water has left them.

“Woah! Hey!” Ghoul pushes Poison away from the door. His fingers tightly wrap around Poison’s arm, as if he’s afraid to let go again. Poison bites their lip, clearly suppressing a hiss. “Hold the fuck up! You can’t just reappear after two weeks with a kid and expect us not to bombard you with questions.”

“Who is that?” Kobra asks, glancing at the child. He looks almost just as confused as the others. His face is covered in ash and dust and a bit of blood, just like Poison. He doesn’t seem to be near as burnt, though.

“Who cares?” Poison shrugs. “A group of Dracs was trying to kidnap him. I guess they killed his parents by the time I arrived. Obviously, I joined the fight.” Poison turns their fingers into a gun. “Like hell if I’m going to miss an opportunity for a firefight. But anyway, like the hero I am, I saved the kid. Got stranded in the desert though, ‘cause someone forgot to fucking refuel his motorcycle.”

Kobra glared right back. “I was saving the gas can for my race. Which I missed, because of you.”

“Where the hell were you going in the first place?” Jet finally asks. That’s what’s been bugging him the most. “And the red hair?”

Poison tries to wrench their arm away from Ghoul. He doesn’t take the hint and holds on. Poison huffs. “I went to get hair dye. Remember that gang of goths we ran into the other day? I liked the idea of red hair. So I went to Tommy’s, and on my way home, I found the brat.” Poison manages to get their arm back. Ghoul almost reaches out to grab them again, but Poison’s hand is right by their gun, and he seems to think better. “Now, I’m going to go take a nap. Someone help that kid, or don’t. I don’t care.”

Poison begins to push past them, but Jet Star grabs their shoulder. Poison whips their head up, eyes burning, and Jet Star keeps his voice quiet. “Hey, you look like you’ve been hurt, too. Do you want me to bandage you up?”

“Yeah, how’d you get hurt?” Ghoul pulls the back of Poison’s shirt up, and for a split second, everyone gets to see the awful wounds on their back. Their flesh is completely charred and melted, and Kobra Kid looks lightheaded at the sight. He doesn’t like blood. “Woah! These sure aren’t blaster wounds!”

Poison jumps practically ten feet in the air. They whirl around, nearly ripping their shirt from jerking back so fast. They take ten steps away from Ghoul, their expression furious. “Do not touch me! Asshole!”

They cross their arms and begin to stomp off. “A grenade got thrown while I was saving the kid. I’m taking a nap!”

They slam the door to Jet Star and their room. The door rattled dangerously. 

The kid sniffles at the sound. Jet Star takes a deep, deep breath, and counts to ten. This entire situation is just raising his blood pressure. “Okay. Let Poison nap, I guess. I’ll take care of the kid. When they wake up, we’ll see if we can get any more information from them.”

Ghoul rolled his eyes. “They’re such a fucking prick.”

Kobra Kid has an odd expression on his face. Jet Star begins to pull down bandages from the cabinets, and the little boy is watching him with wonder. He looks to be about a toddler, though isn’t really sure. There’s not many babies in this desert, after all.

“If a grenade was thrown at them,” Kobra begins, quietly, “shouldn’t the little kid be all burnt up, too?”

Jet Star glances back at the kid. He’s managed to tug his shirt off, and other than a couple of scratches, they seemed to be more scared than actually hurt. The kid’s crying softly and Jet Star tries to clean him up as gently as he can, and the kid is otherwise pretty docile. Probably too tired to fight.

“Only their back was really fucked up.” Kobra hums. 

Ghoul rolls his eyes. “Oh, they’re too selfish to pull a move like that.”

Jet knows what Kobra is thinking. Party Poison probably saw the grenade and took cover. They wrapped the boy in their arms, hunkered over him, and used their body as a shield. The grenade fried their back, but not the kid. It doesn’t sound much like a Poison thing to do. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

-

Party Poison arrived at around noon, and Jet Star doesn’t see them wake up even when the sky turns black and the moon’s beams shine down upon the glimmering sand. Jet isn’t really all that surprised- they did spend two weeks in the desert, and he doubts they got much sleep out there. 

By the time Jet Star crawls into bed, quietly slipping past Party Poison, who was still sprawled out on the floor (they haven’t found anything better than a couple of blankets for them to sleep on yet), Kobra Kid and Ghoul seem to be disgruntled. They’re both desperate for more information over where the hell Party Poison has been and where the fuck Kobra’s bike is. But Jet Star wouldn’t let them wake up Poison, despite the fact that he was just as curious as the others.

The little boy manages to fall asleep with Ghoul, who tucked him into a sort of makeshift bed in his and Kobra's room. They have no idea what to do with him. Ghoul just sort of stayed with the little kid until he fell asleep, and then stayed more just to make sure, and then fell asleep right next to him.

Jet figures they’ll be able to sort this all out by morning, but until then, they’ll just adapt.

When Jet Star wakes up in the middle of the night, he isn’t all that ruffled to find Party Poison missing from their bed. The kid’s always had problems sleeping- Jet thinks it’s sort of a trust issue. They don’t like to fall asleep unless they’re completely and utterly certain that they’re safe. They’re usually not.

Jet doesn’t mind. Sleeping is a vulnerability, after all. If someone wants you dead, it’d be easy as hell to shoot you when you’re already down. Plus, he’s pretty sure that kid usually has nightmares even when they manage to sleep- he’s heard them choking before.

Jet feels oddly awake, so he decides to go up to the roof. He loves stargazing; it’s where he got his name from, after all. The countless nights he and his little family would have to spend under the night sky gave him quite the affinity towards the heavens. His mothers spent as much time as they could to teach him every constatation they knew- which admittedly wasn’t a lot. Still, he knew the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt and a few other basics.

So he slips up to the mangled and bartered roof that witnessed a few too many acid storms. The moon is crescent in shape and looms overhead. The thick veil of a mourning bride hangs over the desert, the ink of the night drenching the land. It was nearly pitch black.

He nearly missed the sight of another figure. Party Poison was standing at the very edge of the building, gazing up at the night sky. They had shed their jacket and were in only a tank top, yet despite the cold, they seemed unaffected. Jet could see heat blisters all about their backside and a few gnarly burns.

“Hey,” Jet Star greeted, making his way next to them. 

Party Poison’s eyes flicked towards him. Out of all the Fab Four, Party Poison seems to simultaneously loathe Jet Star the most but also opens up to him the most. It’s rather bizarre, but Jet Star doesn’t care much. Teenagers are fickle, he thinks. 

Poison doesn’t say a word. Neither does Jet. There’s a million questions he wants to ask, that threaten to spill off his tongue, but he doesn’t say any of them. He waits for Poison to open up. He has time, after all.

“Do you believe in second chances?” Poison’s eyes are fixed on the horizon, on the ever changing colours of the polluted sky. “Do you believe everyone has the capacity to change?”

“Yes, to a certain point.” Jet watches them, carefully. “Do you?”

The stars reflect off their eyes, Despite the small quantity, it almost appears as if glitter had spilled across their irises. “When does a person become incapable of changing?”

Jet raises a brow. He doesn’t answer immediately, instead, choosing to contemplate it to give his best answer. It seems like an important question. “I suppose it’s when they give up on changing.”

“Is there a point when a person is irredeemable?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

“When they view themself as irredeemable, and don’t do anything about it.” Jet Star hums. “I think the worst thing is for a person to know that they are bad, to realise what they have done or are doing is bad, and then they don’t change it. I think as long as you’re willing to change, you can redeem yourself. Maybe not to everyone, but maybe in the eyes of some.”

Poison is quiet. Their eyes are still watching over the desert, completely hollow. The fires Jet usually sees burning within them almost appears to be frosted over. 

“What do you think?” Jet quietly prods. He doesn’t expect much in an answer.

Poison almost acts like they didn’t hear. They stare out towards the horizon, unperturbed by the question. 

“I think trying to redeem yourself is fruitless,” they finally state. They step away from the edge. “Changing your ways means nothing to those you’ve already hurt. You don’t deserve a second chance.”

They sigh and begin to slip down into the diner. For a brief moment, they pause. “But if you’re given one, you better fucking take it.”

Jet Star always thought Poison dreamed of drowning, but maybe, as he stares into their fires of eyes, it’s not water they’re choking on. It’s ash.

-

Unsure of what to do with the kid, they decide to head to Dr. D’s. Poison remains completely impassive and almost detached from the child they just saved. It’s Kobra Kid who holds onto the toddler on their drive to the radio shack.

Dr. D seems perturbed by the small child they’ve adopted. Uncertain of what to do, they brought him to the doc for advice. “Obviously, you should take him to one of the orphanages. Gravel Gertie would take good care of him.”

The child is silent. Cherri Cola is holding him, curious. There’s a sorrow in Cherri’s eyes, and Jet Star finds himself curious over the quieter, softer parts of Cherri’s history.

“You don’t need a distraction.” Dr. D taps the arms of his chair. “You’re big time heroes now. That kid’s just going to get in the way. Besides, none of you even know how to take care of a child.”

Poison seems to straighten from their seat on the couch. Jet Star glances at them, and finds a strange look of determination quietly unfolding upon their features.

“Cherri can take him to Gertie.” Dr. D glances at each of them. 

“No.”

Everyone turns to look at Party Poison this time. They’re standing up now, and there’s a smouldering fire in their eyes. 

“Do you want to take him to Gertie?” Dr. D feigns confusion, but Jet knows that he knows where Party Poison is going.

“We’re gonna keep the kid.” They’re completely confident in their words. 

“You can’t be serious.”

Party Poison picks the boy out of Cherri’s hands. He doesn’t stop them, which earns him a side glare from Dr. D that gets ignored. They bounce the kid a bit before turning their fiery gaze back at Dr. D.

“Oh, I am. We’re gonna keep this kid, and we’re gonna raise him and shit.”

“You don’t need a distraction. I’m sure you’ve gotten emotionally attached since you saved him, but you mustn’t let your emotions drive this sort of decision. Do you think you can really provide this kid with a loving home and support? When you're busy waging a war?”

“I’m not waging a war!” Poison snaps. “What are you trying to insinuate here, huh? That I can’t fucking love?”

“You’re fifteen. You can’t raise a child-”

“Watch me!”

Party Poison has just been challenged. And they never back down from a challenge.

Dr. D glances at the rest of the Fab Four, exasperated. “Come on, don’t you have anything to say?”

“Orphanages suck ass,” Ghoul states, frankly. He leans against the doorframe. “I mean, I was in one for a little while. Gertie’s nice and all, but she can’t take care of all the little gremlins in her orphanage properly. This kid is gonna get overlooked, easily. Overcrowding is a huge issue.”

“I don’t see why we can’t keep him.” Kobra shrugs. “Sure, we're a bunch of teens, but there’s four of us. We’ll be able to combine our skills and give him something like a good home.”

Dr. D glances to Jet. There’s a moment where they just watch each other, where their eyes meet and not a word slips through their lips. Dr. D already knows what Jet is going to say, though- he’s already tried dissuading him from adopting kids before.

“It’ll be hard,” Jet Star begins, carefully. “But, Ghoul is right. No one’s going to care for this kid as much as we can. Orphanages are also huge targets for raids. He’s not gonna be safe at one.”

Kobra and Ghoul high five. Poison watches Dr. D with a fierce expression. “We all can love this kid, and we can provide.”

Dr. D takes a deep, long breath. Cherri hums, petting the kids hair. The kid coos a bit. “I mean, why not? They seem to like the kid, and he likes them. I’d love to adopt him myself, but I’m definitely not in the right mindset. And I wouldn’t let Show Pony near him at all.”

Dr. D glared at Cherri. “Fine. Take care of the kid. I don’t care.” His eyes latch on to Poison, who glares back at him with an equal fierceness. “Don’t lose sight of what you’re doing here, though.”

“I know my role,” Poison spits.

-

Despite all the hell Party Poison raised to keep the child, they are completely disinterested in him. They make every attempt to stay far, far away from the little toddler. They act disgusted everytime they have to touch the child. Jet Star doesn’t fucking understand them: if they didn’t want the kid, why the fuck did they go through so much trouble to save him?

Jet Star just can’t wrap his head around Party Poison. His opinion over the kid keeps souring, and while he tries to keep himself neutral, unbiased, he’ll admit it- he doesn’t like Poison. He knows it’s kind of awful to hate a child, because there’s reasons from their environment that this kid acts the way they do, and it’s completely unfair to pin all the blame on them.

But god damn, Poison is such a fucking asshole.

Jet thought Ghoul was a pain in the ass. But at least Ghoul usually meant well- his maliciousness was never actually with ill intent, and while he never apologized for his actions, he usually seems pretty remorseful. Poison just doesn’t care about the people around them.

They blatantly push away the boy, who they still haven’t named yet. Poison refuses to name him, thinks the kid should do it himself. They all actually kind of agree on that one. 

The boy is beginning to pick up that Poison seems to despise him. He’s stopped trying to get Poison’s affections and almost seems afraid of them. The boy used to be completely enamoured with them, but now he’s almost nervous.

Jet Star doesn’t know how to address this situation at all. He’s still completely confused by Poison’s sudden disdain towards the kid. And Party Poison doesn’t exactly explain the way they act.

-

Kobra Kid turns sixteen. So does Party Poison, since they’re twins. 

On the day of both their birthdays, Party Poison disappears. Kobra Kid is absolutely crestfallen. He’s spent so much time terrified over his sibling that every time they leave, he gets bouts of anxiety. The missing two weeks definitely didn’t help.

Also, Poison stole his motorcycle again. The one they took to Tommy’s got abandoned since they ran out of gas- Jet Star’s slowly been putting the pieces together to realise that Party Poison walked all the way back to the diner, with the little kid. Kobra eventually managed to snatch another bike, and he’s been doing a few test run races with it.

Kobra Kid is mopey the whole day. He keeps glancing at the window, waiting for Poison to show back up. Ghoul and Jet try to cheer him up, take his mind away from Poison, and it only half works.

They offer him his birthday present- a whole stack of MURDER magazines, some nail polish, and a couple of knives they managed to find (pick pocket, in Ghoul’s case). Kobra’s excitement piques, but it’s not enough.

“It’s our first birthday together,” Kobra whispers to Jet when Ghoul decides to try and fix a birthday dinner. “I was hoping we could celebrate it together.”

Jet just rubs his head. “I wonder if they even remember their birthday.”

That seems to sober Kobra Kid completely. He swallows, hard. “Oh.”

Jet blinks. Wrong thing to say. The boy peeks his head from the kitchen door frame, some smudges of paint staining his chubby cheeks. “Hey! I think the Boy painted something for you! Want to see?”

-

Party Poison appears in the middle of the night. Jet Star wakes up to the sounds of heated whispers, and groggily gets out of bed. He slips his way down the halls, quietly.

“Where the hell have you been?” Kobra furiously demands. There’s anger pinching his expression. 

Poison sways, their balance all off. They laugh at Kobra’s question. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me!” Kobra Kid crosses his arms. “Poison, you can’t just disappear whenever you want! That’s completely inconsiderate to everyone else! What if we needed the bike? What if there was an emergency? We’d have no way of contacting you!”

“Who cares?” Poison seems agitated. “I’m going to do whatever I like, and you can’t stop me.”

“Poison-“

“You can’t fucking tell me what to do! And the whole point of disappearing was so you wouldn’t contact me! I can’t fucking stand any of you! And sometimes I just need a fucking break!”

Poison sways dangerously to the left. Their hands are clenched into fists, and Jet Star can hear the way they’re stumbling over their words, slurring them together.

“You’re drunk,” Kobra states. There’s something serious in his tone. “You left us without a word so you could fucking drink?”

“Hell yeah, I did.” Poison laughs. “Being drunk doesn’t make you anymore tolerable though.”

Kobra rubs his eyes. “Poison, drinking alone is so fucking dangerous. I get wanting a buzz but-“

“Shut up about dangerous! This whole damned situation is dangerous.”

“Someone could have taken advantage of you-“

“Ha!” Poison tilts their head back as they laugh, and they stumble back. “No one could ever do that! I do what I want. No one made me do anything.”

Kobra frowns at the words. That’s when Poison steps closer towards Kobra, out of the shadows of the diner doorway. There’s smudged purple lipstick stains on their cheek and lips. Kobra’s expression flickers.

“Poison, give me the keys.”

“No!” Poison laughs. 

“Right fucking now.”

“You can’t tell me what to do.”

Kobra tackles Poison. They hit the ground with a nasty thud. Poison is vicious in the way they fight back, and Jet knows Kobra is getting desperate.

Jet steps in.

Poison and Kobra have already gotten in a few solid punches. Kobra’s got a black eye forming and Poison’s nose is bleeding a bit. Jet Star yanks Poison, who managed to get the upper hand since Kobra was a little hesitant to do much damage, off of Kobra. Poison kicked and jerked violently in his arms, their boots jamming into Jet’s knees. 

“All of you, calm down!” 

“I hate you!” Poison cries. Jet’s not sure who they’re talking to. “I hate you all so fucking much! Stop telling me what the fuck to do! You’re all so fucking annoying!”

“Poison, you need to-“

“Stop!” Poison sends a real nasty kick to Jet’s knee. “You don’t get to tell me shit. You ain’t shit.”

“Oh, and you are?”

“I know what I am and where I stand!” There’s a fire in Poison’s eyes, but this one seems utterly self destructive. “I know what I am! And you can’t turn me into something I’m not!”

“And what are we trying to turn you into?”

Poison sputters, too drunk to form something coherent. “Let me go!”

“We’ll talk about this more when you’re not drunk off your shit.” Jet Star sighs. He pries the keys out of Poison’s grasp, and gets a weak scratch at his arm in return. It draws a little blood. “Go the fuck to bed!”

Poison stumbles from Jet’s release. They flip him off and stomp angrily towards their room. Jet watches them slam the door, and notices Ghoul and the Boy watching from the hallway. He rubs his face. 

“Go back to bed,” he states. “We’ll all talk in the morning.”

Ghoul glances at the Boy, then nods. He scoops him up and quietly makes his way back to his room.

Jet puts his attention back on Kobra. Kobra's eyes are watery, and tears start streaming down his cheeks. “Sometimes I wish they had stayed dead.”

Kobra chokes on his words. He slips to the ground and Jet Star follows suit, quietly offering a shoulder for him to cry on. He takes it.

“I liked the memory I had of them. Of this kind and curious little sibling who wanted to be someone famous and good.”

Kobra buries his face in Jet Star’s neck. “I hate them. I hate what they’ve become.”

Jet Star just rubs his back as he dissolved into tears. What could he say?

-

Jet Star hates to say it, but he fucking hates Party Poison.

As the desert consensus over the Fab Four continues to tip in favour of them even more so every day, it’s clear Party Poison is getting an ego boost. They continue pursuing mission after mission, slaughtering Drac after Drac, and Poison sings their little songs of rebellion and anarchy to the masses in order to incite the idea that a revolution is coming.

The people are absolutely enamoured with Party Poison. The desert has been looking for someone just as great as the original killjoys, someone to put on a pedestal to worship under the belief that they’ll be saved. They want to believe in someone again. 

After Mad Gear abandoned the cause and turned to their music, the desert began to wallow in pity. The only people who showed even an inkling of an ability to burn BLi into ashes had all been slaughtered, and the only survivor proved that they were over war and that they were done with fighting. 

But now there’s someone new, someone flamboyant and charming and alluring, who promises a revolution. A person who sings their siren songs of anarchy and rightful destruction of the parasitic mega corporation. And the desert people are so desperate to be saved, to have someone to look up to again, and they latch onto Party Poison, slowly but firmly becoming hypnotized

And then the desert designated them with a title Jet Star was taught to whisper only in reverence: messiah.

The desert calls them all sorts of names: Hero. Saviour. Messiah. Deliverer.

The desert believes the Fab Four to be completely perfect, impenetrable. They believe Party Poison to be the infallible leader, the hero who’s destined to save them all, and it completely boils Jet Star’s blood that Party Poison is the one they dare call a savior.

Party Poison is no messiah. They carry too many sins to be a being of purity, with treaspasses that linger over them like omnipresent storm clouds. Jet Star knows not of their past but of their guilt. He knows the calamity that stirs within them, the darkness within their eyes.

Party Poison is a beacon of change, yet they are strangely calm in the turmoils beside them. They are the eye of the storm, the epicenter of the destructive waves they flood the desert in. They bathe the people in their fire and blood.

They are mystical. With a voice like a siren, calling forth for action. They whisper the seeds of a revolution and people plant it for them. They cry for riots and spilled blood and the people unsheathe their swords and rage battle cries on their whim.

Feathers cling to their body like the blood of those they have slain. Messiahs are to be peaceful and dovish, not crow warriors that lust for blood.

Jet Star knows that he is no guiding light of perfection, that various black doings marr his body just as everyone else. No soul in this desert is perfect, is pure of any sin- there is no black nor white, no good nor evil. Only those who try to be good, and only those who try to be evil.

No one is perfect. Not Kobra Kid, who has a vile temper and a mean streak. Not Fun Ghoul, who has a lust for violence and destruction that can’t be quite quenched. Not Jet Star, who has revenge thrumming through his veins, who has a deep seated hatred that threatens to tear him apart. And certainly not Party Poison, who’s selfish and haughty and egotistical.

But at least, despite all his flaws, he never pretends to be someone perfect.

But Party Poison does. They eat up this praise like they’re a starving man. They bask in the glory the desert bathes them in like a salamander in the afternoon sun. They adore being glorified into some savior, and Jet Star watches as their head just grows bigger and bigger.

They are no martyr, no selfless being of perfection. They are too imperfect, too flawed and oozing with sin to be a savior, a messiah, a hero.

They are selfish as they are consumed only by fleshly desires. They care simply for the thrills and the chase; they do good not because they care for the people they help, but for the slaughter they may perform. They care only for the bloodshed that entices and stirs their very core. They care only for danger, who calls their bones and acts as a magnet that Poison is perpetually drawn to. They do not care about the people that are being hurt; they care only for the fight that comes with oppression.

Party Poison is selfish. It’s a fact of life that they’re narcissistic and apathetic towards others, that they have a god complex and think they’re the epitome of perfection. They don’t care about anything but themself and surviving- they’ll throw away the lives of their entire crew if it meant that they could live. 

They don’t care about saving people- that was never the goal, nor was destroying BLi. They only care about the danger, seeking the thrills of firefights and fulfilling the bloodlust. They crave violence like a thirst they can’t quench, desperate to cause as much carnage as possible and mindless of the people hurt in their pursuit. They fight against BLi for the thrill, to sedate the desire to destroy within them. They don’t want to fix things or help people. 

A messiah is meant to bring about peace. A saviour is meant to rescue those who can not rescue themselves. A hero is meant to inspire. A liberator is meant to break the chains of oppression.

Party Poison is no messiah, and Jet Star’s stomach twists in a hot rage at those who whisper their righteousness. 

Party Poison isn’t a fucking hero.

-

Party Poison is horribly, horribly selfish and violent. They just have absolutely no regard for human life. They are wholly reckless and careless, and the only thing on their mind at any moment is themself.

Jet Star tries, desperately, to provide them with a good role model. Like he did for Ghoul and Kobra Kid, he tried hard to offer them the lessons of generosity and kindness his mothers instilled into him. But Party Poison isn’t an impressionable preteen- they’ve lived life much longer and much differently than the kids Jet Star managed to find.

Party Poison doesn’t talk about their city life, about the four year disappearance. But Jet Star knows something must have happened, that there’s no way they just suddenly became this violent monster. Something happened, and Jet is desperate to understand.

Jet Star wants to sympathize with them, he truly does. Party Poison is just a child, just a scraggly teenager. Jet Star wants to understand why they act so fucking awful. What made this kid into such a fucking violent, selfish person?

Jet Star has watched them fight. And they never seemed to be able to curb their bloodlust. They demolish Drac’s with a smile, they enjoy picking fights with Scarecrows and Dracs, they enjoy the battles they fight in. They ruthlessly shoot those who get in their way, and they are completely sadistic in their fighting style. Their violence is near torment for the Dracs they slay.

They crave fights, spilled blood. He knows they go out and pick fights with other killjoys, they slum around at bars and try to rile up the drunks. He’s heard Hot Chimp complain about them on more than one occasion, and how whenever there’s a fight, she already knows who started it.

Party Poison comes back to the diner at all hours of the night. They’ve hidden the keys to both the car and Kobra's bike, but either they keep finding them or they will walk to the club themself. They don’t care about anyone else, just about the fights and the blood.

Jet Star hates Party Poison, because they’re just a violent, selfish bastard.

-

Something happens.

Violent bouts against Korse and his men have become rather common. Apparently, Korse has been assigned to exterminate the Fab Four. BLi is beginning to see that maybe the Fab Four is more than just a pesky band of ‘teenagers’.

Either case, at least once a month, the Fab Four will find themself battling against Korse and some Dracs. These fights seem to be the ones Party Poison loves the most- Party Poison immediately abandons the rest of the crew to pursue Korse. And Korse focuses solely on Party Poison.

Not that Jet Star would ever want to catch the attention of a crazed, homicidal android man, but it does kind of miff him that Korse only seems to really care about Poison. He supposed that out of all of them, BLi has decided Poison is the most valuable. After all, they’re the one on the radio all the time. The idea that Poison is ‘more important’ than the others does, admittedly, annoy him.

Still, it just means Party Poison keeps trying to fight the head of the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W program alone. And Jet will give credit where credit is due- Party Poison knows how to fight, and how to do so well. Because they constantly clash with Korse and they keep managing to make it out alive, which not many people can say.

Jet Star hasn’t gone numb to the firefights, not really. It’s still completely anxiety inducing, despite the fact that he knows his crew can handle themself. But he doesn’t really think too much about Poison fighting off Korse, not anymore. He’s just so used to watching Party Poison chase after the man with their fucking switchblade.

When they engage with Korse and his men again, when Jet Star is almost twenty five and the terror twins are nearly seventeen and Ghoul is nearly sixteen and the Boy is nearly four, he doesn’t think much of it. It’s all routine- Korse leads the Dracs against them, they fight each other, Poison mutilates a bunch of people and then tries to kill Korse who tries to kill them, and then Korse eventually gives up and calls for a retreat.

And it was. 

Until it wasn’t.

Jet Star is busy facing off his own Dracs, so he doesn’t get to watch the prelude. Fun Ghoul and the Boy are back at the diner. Kobra Kid is quite a ways away, trying to take on all the Dracs that have swarmed around him. The Dracs are pretty good at splitting them up, but they’ve gotten even better at not relying on people to cover for them.

When Jet Star turns back to face Party Poison, he manages to tune in at just the right time.

Party Poison is on their back. Korse is standing right on top of them, his foot pressed onto their throat. They’re exchanging words, but Jet Star is too far away to read their lips, and the gun shots drown out their voices.

Suddenly, Korse cocks his gun. Party Poison is laughing, manically, from the way their head is tilted back and their entire body seems to convulse.

A shot rings out.

Jet Star’s blood goes cold.

Korse shoots Party Poison, straight in the head. Poison stops laughing, and Korse blows the smoke from his gun. Then, without warning, he aims his gun at their head again and starts firing, shot after shot. 

Jet Star works on autopilot. He shoots the Dracs that have surrounded him, dodging every punch or laser aimed his way. His brain is on a one track mission, and not even the Dracs trying to execute him will stop him.

Korse disappears. It makes Jet Star’s blood boil now, a rage filling his body like oxygen to the lungs. He manages to dispel the Dracs pretty quickly, and maybe with a fiercer and more violent way than he usually would have dealt with them.

There’s a clear path in front of him now. He runs, as fast as he can, his legs burning as he fires shot after shot against any Drac that notices him. He rubs and rubs and the only thing on his mind is the colour red as he gets closer and closer.

Red.

Blood staining the golden grains of the sand. Red hair that glows like the hot coals in a smouldering fire. The red blood gushing from Party Poison’s body, which has been mutilated with still smoking burns.

Jet Star drops to the ground next to Poison. Kobra Kid is too far away to notice what happened, too far away to see his sibling’s fucking corpse.

He can’t afford to waste time with a body. But god damn, Jet can’t help it. The idea that Party Poison, who may be an irredeemable asshole, was fucking dead seemed absolutely incomprehensible. Party Poison, who was loud and vibrant and mean and biting- they can’t just be fucking dead. They’ve fought Korse hundreds of times before, they can’t just fucking lose now

He puts his finger against their neck, then their wrist. He listens for a heartbeat, for the sounds of a breath. Their flesh is still burning, still warm, and if he keeps his hands on it for too long, he’s almost worried that he’ll get burnt. 

He sees the amount of blood and the bullet holes that riddle their body and he knows this is a corpse he’s trying to find life in. So he takes a breath, moves off his knees, and he gets back up. There’s still some Dracs that need to be taken care of.

He wipes the blood off his hands (it doesn’t come off) and pulls his gun back out. He spies Kobra Kid and begins to head towards him. He can’t help Party Poison, but he can help someone who’s still living. A couple of crows caw distantly as he tries to block out the sight of Poison’s body.

Suddenly, a shot rings out. A laser manages to just barely miss Jet Star. Jet Star glances to his left at where the laser landed, and watched a Drac crumble to the ground. Jet Star spun around on his heels.

Party Poison stands. Blood drips down their face, painting their lips a ruby red that gleams in the sun. There’s feathers stuck in odd clumps in their hair. The burns on their body suddenly don’t seem as severe as Jet Star remembers, the blood already dried. Their hair becomes even more vibrant, absolutely glowing from the halo of light the sun casts over them.

“On your left,” Poison states, a smug grin twisting their expression. Jet Star blinks, once, twice. 

He sighs. He knows the questions he wants to ask won’t be answered. Instead, he tilts his head towards Kobra Kid. “Let’s go.”

-

Jet Star doesn’t ask any questions. Party Poison doesn’t offer any answers. But Jet knows what he saw- he knows dead bodies, he knows corpses. He’s seen hundreds of them, be it they were his crew or he just happened to stumble upon some victims of a raid. He knows bodies.

He knows the stories of those coming back from the dead. He’s heard it enough from his last crew. The Devils told him fanatical tales of the Phoenix Witch bringing back those with strong fates back from the dead. Or, She cursed them to continuously come back from the dead. It depended on who you spoke to.

Jet Star doesn’t believe in deities or saints, and he’s long ago lost faith in the idea of a messiah, but he does believe in magic. But maybe, what stood before him in that moment- well. Who knows?

Jet Star wakes up as the sun begins to rise. He dreamt of feathers and claws and battlefields and soulless eyes. Party Poison is missing from their bed again. He thinks he knows where they are.

He slips up to the roof. True to his hunch, Poison is standing out on the edge. He wonders how often they stand up here, staring out at the desert. He wonders what they’re thinking.

Jet Star hates Party Poison. It’s a fact. But he does want to like them. There’s a potential in them to change, he thinks.

“You died.” Jet stands next to them. Neither of them are looking at each other.

“Did I?”

“Didn’t you?”

“Not really.”

“You died, and you came back. How?”

He felt their pulse, their heart. He listened to them, their heart not thumping a single beat nor steady breaths. He knows.

They spread their arms like wings, their hair ruffling in the breeze as they stand at the very edge of the building. Their eyes twinkle in the dimming light, and the sunrise kisses them with inferno lips that make their hair as bright as embers. They cock their head suddenly, and the fire that burned on their head seemed to burn within them as their lips twisted into a smile.

“Tell me,” they demand. “What do you believe in?”

Jet feels oddly off guard. There’s something strange in Poison’s eyes, some sort of dark yet playful melancholy. He sees this child with the eyes of an ancient god and the dementor of a trickster fae and he wonders what they seem to know. He feels oddly naked as their eyes gaze upon Jet Star. 

“I don’t know,” Jet Star admits, quietly. 

Jet Star has always had a complicated relationship with religion. It’s difficult to understand what to believe in, to believe in a god that let him watch his parents die right in front of his eyes when he was eight. But to ignore the existence of magic, ignore all the religious teachings his mothers whispered to him in hopes of saving their crumbling ideologies feels too cruel. 

“Tell me when you figure out what you believe in,” Poison begins, their voice quiet. “And I’ll tell you something in return.”

There’s this strange moment, when the sun reaches just the right height and Party Poison’s head is tilted just so. The reflection of light against their hair almost makes it look like there’s blood splattered across their face.

Jet Star has the sudden urge to wash his hands raw. “Fair enough.”

-

“What do you believe in?”

Kobra Kid and Ghoul glance up at Party Poison. It’s been days since their grand resurrection. Jet’s mind is still trying to grasp that, still trying to understand that it’s actually true. He wonders how many other times they died.

The Boy watches the others, curious. He’s just turned four, and Jet is beginning to think that calling him the Boy isn’t a good idea. He’s been growing out his hair and has been showing a lot of interest in feminine things. Obviously, in the desert, gender and gender presentation is a fucked up thing, so it could mean nothing. 

“What, like religion?” Kobra asks. He’s gazing at Poison with an odd expression.

“The Phoenix Witch,” Poison clarifies.

“I only believe in what I can see,” Ghoul argues, languishing his wrench like a baton as he speaks. He was fucking around with the trans am Kobra won a few weeks back. The truck they had been using finally broke down. “Obviously, Destroya exists because we can see that robot’s fucking head in the sand just a few zones over. But the Phoenix Witch? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Jet Star opens his mouth to reply, wants to say that just because the robot exists doesn’t mean it’s inherently divine, but his eyes just happen to wander over to Party Poison. There's mischief in the way their lips curl into a smile, and something sparks within their eyes which makes Jet shut his mouth in favour of seeing what they have to say.

“Trust me, Ghoulie, you wouldn’t know magic if it was right in front of you.”

Jet Star knows he has a tendency to over analyze things- both of his past crews have brought that fact to light thousands of times. But the wording of their sentence makes Jet wonder if there's a double meaning to their slight.

Ghoul rolls his eyes and haphazardly tosses his wrench at them. In a fluid motion Poison catches it with a smirk. “There’s no magic in the zones- the Witch is just a fairytale for little kids, or idiots like you.”

“I don’t believe in Her,” Party Poison states, almost snaps. “There’s no such thing as gods.”

Kobra eyes them, curiously. “You always seemed like the religious type.”

Poison scoffs. “Not for Her.”

Jet Star doesn’t add in his two cents. Besides, to reveal his complex feelings over religion is firstly personal and secondly not something he’d want to hash out.

-

Party Poison and Ghoul have a strange relationship at best.

The problem is simply that they’re both too much alike. Like forces tend to repel each other, and the two of them are extremely similar, except Party Poison is much more extreme. 

The two are constantly bickering and fighting, and it’s always hard to tell when they’re joking around or seriously trying to fuck with each other. Poison loves to press other people’s buttons and Ghoul loves to get riled up. Jet Star has had to separate them from each other a couple of times. Ghoul still has a small scar across his forehead from when Poison tried to slash at him with their knife. Poison’s sense of smell has been fucked up since Ghoul broke their nose a few months back.

Their relationship is tentative at best. But when Ghoul wants to go blow shit up, he always brings Poison along. And when Poison wants to start a fight at Bullets, they snatch Ghoul and the trans am (Jet never taught them how to drive, and has always been extremely curious as to how they fucking know).

Though, those bar fights don’t always end well.

Jet Star noticed they’d been out later than usual. It’s been a while since he’d been to Bullets and said a greeting to Newsagogo and Hot Chimp, anyway. He snagged Kobra’s bike and decided to check on the two asshole teens. Kobra stayed behind, colouring with the Girl.

It’s not a very long drive. Jet Star wanders around the club scene, a perpetual chill down his spine. He’s tried to avoid clubs like these since he was fifteen, and while he hasn’t stopped going to them all together, he doesn’t really enjoy them. 

He finds the two in an empty storage room upstairs. They’re arguing- he can hear their sharp voices spitting even sharper words.

He peeks inside. He shouldn’t lurk nor eavesdrop, but he does it anyway.

“You’re always preaching about unity and shit!” Ghoul shouts. “But you‘re always fucking picking fights! You’re such a fucking hypocrite!”

“You have no right to judge!”

“You’re such a shitty fucking killjoy! You’re so fucking selfish! You’re not some sort of hero! I wish people would see you for what you are!”

“Marvelous?” Party Poison sways as they give him a snarky smile. They both seem to be drunk. “Don’t be jealous!”

“I’m not jealous of you! You’re a fucking psychopath who only cares about themself! You don’t care about any of us! You’re such a fraud! You’re nothing like the original killjoys! At least they stood for something!”

“Who gives a damn about a bunch of dead people!” Poison spits. Fun Ghoul’s face turns a bright shade of red. “Hell yeah, I'm nothing like them! I’m not fucking stupid enough to get everyone in my life exterminated! I’m not dumb enough to let myself get shot along side the road or abducted by fucking Dracs! And I’m not a fucking coward like Mad Gear, who ran when shit got tough!”

“Don’t you dare speak about them like that! At least they cared about the cause they were fighting for!”

“Yeah? And now they’re just a bunch of dead corpses!”

“You’re no killjoy!” Ghoul shouts. “You’re defacing everything the original Killjoys stood for! You’re nothing like them!”

Party Poison gives a sharp toothed grin. “I don’t care. I’m not here to fill the role of a bunch of dead people. I do shit my way.”

“You’re a piece of shit!”

“Yeah, well at least I’m fucking alive! At least I’m not a bunch of fucking morons who died for a meaningless cause!”

“Don’t talk about them like that!”

“I do what I fucking want! They’re all a bunch of fucking cowards!”

“Shut up!”

“They’re a bunch of nobodies who thought that they can redeem themselves after participating in a meaningless war so they started a new meaningless war!” Party Poison laughs, completely maniacal. “They’re a bunch of fucking murderers who paraded as heroes!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“They tried to redeem themselves but they were soldiers! They can’t fucking get rid of all the blood on the skin! They’re just a bunch of stupid, disillusioned assholes who decided to become self righteous when they realised they might have made a couple of mistakes!

“Don’t talk about my parents like that!”

Ghoul starts swinging. He knocks Poison to the ground, his fist connecting with their jaw. Jet Star almost darts in to stop them, but he doesn’t.

“My parents were in that group!” There’s tears streaming down Ghoul’s cheeks. He hiccuped as he swung another fist. “They died for this cause! They died trying to help that android girl! They died trying to help people! Don’t call them murderers! Don’t say that shit! They’re fucking heroes!”

Party Poison stares Ghoul dead in the eye. “No, they’re fucking not.”

Ghoul screams and he just keeps punching. Party Poison doesn’t even seem to care, they just watch as Ghoul dissolved into sobs. 

Jet finally decides to step in. He yanks Ghoul off of Party Poison, and the kid immediately starts to try and fight Jet Star. “I don’t know why the fuck you guys started arguing, but y’all need to come home. The Boy and Kobra Kid are getting worried about you.”

“They started it!” Ghoul shrieks. “Fucking asshole!”

Poison begins to get back to their feet. They rub the caking blood from their nose. “Whatever.”

“What happened?”

“They’re wasting all of our money on alcohol!”

“Hey, you joined me in drinking!” Poison glares. 

“They keep sneaking off here and buying alcohol! We could have been using that money for the trans am! That thing needs a huge fixing up! But you’re too selfish to care!”

“Yeah, I am.” 

Poison begins to walk off. Jet Star sets Ghoul down, and thankfully, he doesn’t try to go back to fighting Poison. Before Jet even grabs Poison’s shoulder, the kid is already recoiling away. “Hey, wait a minute.”

“No.” Poison yanks their shoulder away, and Jet grabs their jacket. It dips enough for the collar to bend back, and Jet Star sees a thick curtain of bruises lining their neck, as well as a few hickeys. Poison fiercely jumps back, and Jet Star releases them. “Don’t touch me!”

“Poison, we just want to talk this out. Come on, stay here for a minute-“

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Poison turns their back and walks off. “Y’all don’t know shit! You don’t know shit!”

“Then tell us shit!” Jet hollers back. He could go after them, easy. But he doesn’t.

Ghoul rubs his eyes. “Asshole. Fucking asshole. They wouldn’t know a fucking hero if they saw one.”

-

Everyone believes Poison to be the next messiah. And Poison bathes in the attention. Every instance they can, they turn the attention back on them. They steal the spotlight time and time again, away from the others. 

The desert still loves them. They find them completely flawless, their stage persona wonderful. Jet wonders what they would think of them if they knew the complete truth.

The Boy keeps trying to reach out to Party Poison. They’ve had the kid for nearly three years now, and Poison still refuses to have anything to do with him. It’s so fucking frustrating to watch, because the Boy clearly wants some sort of attention from them, but Poison refuses to give it.

As of now, the Boy has been trying to draw pictures to give to Poison. He’s been scribbling away, almost frantically, trying to make something he thinks Poison will enjoy. Ghoul’s been frank with the kid a couple times before and straight up told him there was no point, but the kid is just as stubborn as everyone else in their crew.

Everyday he’ll finish a picture and he’ll wait by Poison’s room to try and give it to them. Poison has picked up on this, however, and has resigned themself to locking themself in their room to try to get the kid to leave them alone. When the Boy gets tired of waiting, he eventually just slips the drawings under the door and decides to try and make a new one. This goes on for weeks.

Until, one day, Poison decides that they’ve had enough.

Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul are out at Tommy’s, trying to haggle the man into giving up some supplies. They refused to bring Party Poison, since Tommy hates the kid’s guts, and they didn’t trust Poison alone with the kid, so they left Jet at the diner, too.

The Boy finished another picture. He never shows anyone what they are, convinced that it’s just for Poison. He’s sitting in front of Poison’s door, colouring a little bit in a colouring book they managed to find a few weeks back as he waited. 

Jet Star is trying to take a nap in the dining area. He’s in a booth that peers down the hallway the Boy is sitting in, just in case something happens. It’s quiet for a good while, just the sounds of pop music pumping from the radio in the kitchen. 

Suddenly, Poison’s door bursts open. They nearly trip over the kid as they make their exit, and the Boy practically bursts to life.

“Party! Party!” He chirps. He stumbles to his feet and latches onto their leg. “Look! Look!”

Poison tries to detach him from their leg. The kid waves their paper in front of their face, trying to get their attention. “I drew this for you! Look!”

Poison snatches the paper from his hands. There’s a brief moment where they stare at it, the rough crayon lines. Suddenly, they begin to crumble the paper into a wrinkly ball. The Boy watches as they toss the paper away and try to shake the kid off their leg.

“I don’t give a shit,” Poison states. “Stop trying to give me shit and stay away from me.”

The Boy stumbles off their leg as they begin to quickly walk away. Jet Star is already moving to his feet, ready to fucking beat Poison’s ass, when the Boy begins to start sobbing. He doesn’t scream or shriek, just plops down on the floor and starts choking on his own wails.

Poison brushed past Jet, their shoulders smacking each other as Jet stood in their way. “Hey! Where the fuck do you think your going?”

“Shooting,” Poison spits, their hands on their hips. “Move.”

“No. Go fucking apologize to the Boy.”

“No.” Poison tries to move past Jet but he grabs their shoulder. They bristle at the contact and try to jerk away but Jet remains steady. 

“Go apologize.”

“Listen, you know damn well I’m not going to. So why don’t you go comfort the kid and I go shoot shit up before I think about aiming that gun at you?”

“Are you threatening me? You fucking-“

The Boy lets loose a heart wrenching wail, and Jet is forced to choose. He can’t just leave that kid crying on the floor while he tries to change Party Poison into a better person. Poison isn’t going to comfort him. 

Jet opens the door and shoves Party Poison towards it. “Don’t come back until you fucking fixed your attitude.”

Poison slams the door behind them. Jet Star takes in a deep breath and heads towards the Boy.

-

Party Poison comes back in the middle of the night. There’s glitter in their hair, blue lipstick stains and smudged make up on their face. They amble into the diner, and Jet’s been waiting for them. 

They’re not drunk, thank god. He’s seen them shuffle into the diner enough times to be able to tell whether they’ve been drinking too hard or not. They’re a little off kilter, and he thinks they might be just a bit tipsy but not stone cold drunk, as they move inside, glitter dripping off their body as they walk.

Jet Star slips out of the booth he was sitting in. Poison immediately glances at him, and there’s a lull, a quiet moment as the only sound that rings out is the gentle static of the radio.

“We’re going to talk,” Jet Star states, firmly.

Poison snarls. “Are we?”

“Yes. Why the fuck do you hate the Boy so much?” 

“I don’t hate him.”

“Then why do you treat him like shit? All he wants is to get close to the person who saved him from being kidnapped and argued to keep him in their crew!”

Poison sends him a sharp toothed grin. “Trust me, it’s better off for him that he doesn’t get close to me.”

“Why? Why are you so fucking adamant on burning every fucking bridge you’ve built? Huh? Why do you hate this fucking four year old?”

“I don’t hate him!” They repeat, louder.

“Well, you clearly don’t love him! Look at how you’ve been fucking treating him! He’s human, too! Treat him like one!”

“I do love him!” Poison argues, and it sounds almost desperate. The statement nearly makes Jet Star’s blood boil.

“Then act like it! All you’ve ever acted towards him is harsh and shitty! You keep pushing that kid away again and again, and everytime you get even more ruthless and mean. You don’t love him!”

“I do!” Party Poison opens up their jacket and yanks a wad of paper out of an inside pocket. They thrust them at Jet Star, who barely manages to hold on to them. “I do love him! I’m capable of loving him!”

The frantic edge to Ppison’s words sort of sets Jet on edge. He glances down at the papers, picking through each one. They were all hand crafted drawings of scribbles and crayons, with the Boy’s sloppy signature Jet taught him to do. Jet looks at each drawing, usually of Party Poison. The one at the top was a picture of Party Poison and the Boy, holding hands. It’s crude, but it evokes an emotion in Jet Star that he can’t place.

“I keep every drawing he gives me,” Poison huffs, rubbing their arms. “Always.”

“If you love the Boy so much,” Jet begins, cautiously, “then why don’t you show it to him?”

Poison runs their fingers through their hair. Jet Star’s never seen them so stressed before, and it’s clear that they’re trying to word their next sentence carefully yet there’s still that frantic look in their eyes like they’re desperate to prove something.

“I’m protecting him,” Poison settles on. It’s the first time Jet ever gets a solid answer to this question. And it’s the first time Poison let’s him finally get an inkling of understanding of their thought process.

“From what?” He’s feeling a bit exasperated.

Poison goes quiet. The static seems to grow louder, a cascade of electricity buzzing. In the distance, he’s pretty sure that he heard a couple of crows sing.

“Me.”

It’s quiet, it’s soft, it’s dejected.

Party Poison keeps their eyes away from Jet. They rub their eyes frantically, and Jet wonders if they’re trying not to cry. “I just- Dr. D told me that I wasn’t capable of loving someone like him. That I’m something unable to love. And even if I could love, all I’m gonna do is fuck up the kid. He said I need to stay away from him, and he’s right. I’m just… something bad. I have to protect the kid, because I know that kid is someone special! I think he’s important. But I can’t let him get hurt, and I can’t let him get fucked up by something preventable, so I can’t let him get fucked up by something like me.”

Poison wipes their mouth. A smear of electric blue lipstick follows. “I’m not good for him. So trust me, this is all for his own good. I’m something he won’t want in his life, and it’s better to stay out before I taint the kid or something.”

It’s a small thing, yet it manages to attract his attention. The usage of some _thing_ instead of some _one_. It keeps throwing him off. It probably means nothing, but the frequency still catches his attention.

“Dr. D told you to stay away from the kid?” Jet Star finally whispers, just barely able to tamp down the utter rage that threatens to shake his voice.

“Well, he didn’t have too.” Party Poison tilted their head up high, oddly proud. “I don’t take orders from him. But, yeah. And he’s right.”

Party Poison wipes their hands on their jeans. Jet Star feels a strange fury threatening to spill, but it’s not directed at Party Poison. Sure, they’re a dick and they need to fucking atone for a lot of their actions, but Dr. D was a known manipulator. 

“Party Poison,” he begins, quietly. Poison’s eyes are completely on him at the use of their full name. “That’s not true at all. What you’re doing now is hurting the Boy more than what you could possibly think. You’re not protecting him by being an asshhole to him. You’re not doing anyone any favours by acting like a piece of shit. The Boy wants you in his life. Be there for him.”

Party Poison hesitates. There’s a moment there, where Jet Star sees a vulnerability, and it reminds him that they’re just a fucked up seventeen year old child. There’s a moment where they look like they might just spill everything, where they might explain why they think they’re gonna be such a terrible influence and why they’re such a fucking asshole.

But they don’t. “I don’t wanna be something I’m not. And I’m not good for this kid.”

“Poison, you’re someone in this kid's life. You have to own up to the responsibilities. You think we’ve all been perfect parents? Hell no, we haven’t. But at least we tried. And even if everything goes to shit, even if whatever weird fucking fears you have over fucking this up does come true? At least you tried.” Jet Star puts a special emphasis on his next words. “You can become someone the Boy can put his trust in, if you let yourself.”

Poison blinks. They glance at their hands, and there’s another lull in time where they just stare. It’s the first time anything Jet Star’s ever said seems to be even remotely registering in them. Maybe it’ll even stick.

“Please,” Jet Star begins, and starts to make his way back to his room. “Make up with the Boy. Apologize. And try again.”

He leaves them alone in the middle of the diner. He knows Party Poison is selfish, wont ever admit that they’re in the wrong, and has this strong sense of perverse self righteousness that won’t disappear from one conversation. But he hopes to the nonexistent god above that maybe, just maybe, Poison might be willing to change.

-

(Jet Star hates Party Poison. Most people that know them do. Because they’re an awful, violent asshole who wants to watch the world burn.

Jet Star doesn’t want to think two-dimensional, though. Maybe Party Poison is a bit more complex than that.)

-

The Boy wakes up first. He always does- he has such an intense amount of energy. Usually, Fun Ghoul follows; he’s used to sleeping alone and doesn’t like burning daylight. Old habits still stick. Then it’s usually Jet, then it’s a toss up between Kobra and Party Poison. Kobra Kid loves his slee, but usually Poison’s spent the night partying.

But this time, Jet Star wakes up to the sound of footsteps that don’t sound like Ghoul’s or the Boy’s. So he slips out of his room, noticing Party Poison’s absence.

He stands outside of the kitchen. He can see Party Poison hesitantly sitting down next to the Boy, who’s colouring in that colouring book. Ghoul and Kobra are sleeping in- that supply run took a lot out of them.

The Boy doesn’t look up. He’s probably still a little pissed at Poison.

He shouldn’t be listening in, but he definitely wanted to make sure Party Poison didn’t fuck this up. He owes it to the Boy.

“Her name was Helena.” Poison swallows, hard. “Your mom. She was named Helena.”

Jet Star isn’t sure how he anticipated them to connect, but that sure as hell wasn’t it. The Boy has been trying to get more information about his family ever since he was introduced to the concept of a family, and the only person that would have any idea would be Poison, who upon being asked by the Boy, flat out said that she’s dead and that it doesn’t matter. 

The Boy glances at Poison, attention completely gained. This is probably the first time Poison has ever spoken to him without being asked.

“Her killjoy name was Grenade,” they state. “She was a revolutionist in the original Killjoys. She got captured by some Dracs, though. She was a really interesting person.”

The Boy watches them. They pull out a piece of paper and hand it to the kid. “I don’t know how much you’d be interested in this, but there’s this tradition for people to send letters to people who died. They say the Phoenix Witch carries the mail and delivers your letters to them in the afterlife.”

The Boy quietly takes the piece of paper. He’s staring at Poison with an odd expression. Party Poison just gives him a very tired, very sad smile. “Why don’t you draw your mom some pictures? We can drive out to the mailbox and give it to the Witch.”

The Boy’s eyes begin to water. Party Poison’s expression shifts into panic, and the Boy thrust his little arms around their waist. Party Poison freezes. They don’t reciprocate, but they do offer a small shoulder pat.

“Helena,” the Boy repeats, tasting the name. “I’ll draw her a picture of me so she knows what I look like!”

Poison smiles. “She’ll love it.”

-

Jet finds Party Poison on the roof that night. He’s brimming with questions to ask, and he doesn’t care if Poison knows he listened in on them and the Boy. He has to understand.

“Did you figure out what you believe in?” Poison asks without even moving their head. They keep their gaze on the sand dunes before them as Jet sits down next to them. He wonders just how many nights they spend up here.

“Not yet.”

“Something else, huh?”

“The Boy’s mother. You said she was Grenade. How’s that even possible? She was captured by Dracs nearly eight years before the Boy would even be born.”

“She was caught by Dracs but she wasn’t Draced at that moment. She got sent to a rehabilitation center where she met the Boy's father. The two managed to bust out of the center and they lived in the desert together for about six years. They stayed low on BLi’s radar, because BLi was absolutely furious at losing them both.”

Jet wants to ask more questions, but Poison asks their own. “Want to hear a myth about them?”

“I- I guess.”

“The father died before the Boy was born. They say that Grenade was killed in a gunfight with some Dracs when they had just conceived the Boy. The father became so desperate to bring back his partner that he made a deal with the devil, or in this case, the Phoenix Witch. If he wants to bring them back to life, then he has to send Her the souls of a thousand evil men. Basically, kill a thousand people. 

“And he does. But he becomes so consumed with hatred and grief and bloodlust that he becomes the very evil he was set to destroy. So he kills himself and the Witch is satisfied with his work and brings back the mother and child.” Poison hums. “Grenade becomes filled with an undying rage and decides to go after BLi herself. She eventually gets captured, gets Draced, and then the Boy is born.”

Poison shrugs. “It’s one hell of a beginning. Though, take it as you will. The father was also dying of cancer at the time, so maybe that’s how he really died.”

“How do you know all this?” Jet asks, because this is such an intricately detailed story that he’s never heard before.

“There were these two women who broke the Boy out. They had been trying to flee BLi and had promised the mother to keep the Boy safe. One of them managed to tell me some of this before she died. Plus, Dr. D knows a bit about Grenade and I asked him some stuff.

Jet Star frowns. The explanation makes sense, he supposed. He doesn’t challenge it.

They don’t exchange another word.

-

Party Poison doesn’t exactly change over night. They don’t completely stop being a fucking asshole. But to the Boy, they do begin to quietly warm up to him. And just as slowly, the Boy begins to grow fond of Party Poison.

-

The Boy turns five and a couple of things happen.

Firstly, the Boy is no longer the Boy, and is now the Girl. She’s explicitly stated that she’s gonna go by the ‘Girl’ until she figures out a better name for herself. Everybody was completely supportive, of course. For her birthday, they got her a skirt, and she cried excitedly. 

Next, an argument has begun to fester between the crew. Should the Girl learn how to shoot a gun?

It’s completely split.

Jet Star thinks she should. After all, Jet Star learned at that age. The zones are dangerous, and it’s important to know how to protect yourself. It’s not like they’re going to give her a gun to use all the time- she just needs to know how to use one.

Kobra Kid agrees. He thinks knowing self defense is imperative to survival- that’s why he’s been teaching her some hand to hand combat. Plus, the Girl is the one who brought up the question of learning how to shoot. Who are they to deny her an experience to be educated?

Fun Ghoul doesn’t really care all that much, but he doesn’t think they need to. After all, the Girl has four older siblings who will fight for her. There’s no point in teaching her a skill she won’t have to use.

Party Poison is vehemently against the idea. She’s too young, way too young to know the horrors of bloodshed and war. The fact that Party Poison is against teaching her actually makes Jet question whether they should, considering that fuckers awful bloodlust.

“Listen, she has a right to defend herself!” Kobra states, crossing his arms. It’s another argument that’s going to circle back to the same points they all keep making. “She deserves to be educated in any subject she asks us about.”

“She’s like, five! I just don’t think we should be trusting a little kid with a potentially dangerous weapon,” Ghoul states. “I mean, I’m all happy to teach her how to defuse a bomb, but for her to use one? Hell, no. Same goes for a gun.”

“The world is dangerous. She needs to be able to defend herself.”

“Yeah, but we’re still here! We’ll still be able to protect her. And she knows your kung fu or whatever, so it’s not like she’s helpless.”

“She has a right to understand how to fight properly. To suppress information is to be exactly like BLi.”

There’s a snort from Party Poison at that. Kobra spins around to face Poison, clearly annoyed at the dismissal of his argument. “Oh? Do you have something to add?”

“We’re not teaching her how to shoot.” They state it likes it’s final. Jet raises a brow.

“Why?”

“You guys are worried about turning into BLi? Well, if you teach her how to fucking kill and you enlist her into this godawful war, then you’ll be just like BLi. You’re making her into a child soldier. We all know BLi does that- snatches up troubled kids and enlists them into their Drac army.” Poison huffs. “You don’t want to be like the enemy? Then don’t teach this child how to shoot a fucking gun and don’t teach her how to kill.”

“That’s not at all a fair comparison!” Kobra shouts. “We’re not teaching her to turn her into a soldier. We’re teaching her so she can defend herself.”

“That’s exactly what BLi says, too. ‘We’re teaching these kids to kill each other so we can protect Battery City’!”

“Oh, now you’re showing interest in the Girl?” Ghoul scoffs. “I figured you’d be all for this, considering your tendencies to pick fights.”

“I don’t want a five year old to develop a fucking bloodlust.”

“That’s not going to happen! You’re thinking completely in the extreme. We’re just going to do some target practice! We’re not going to fucking set her loose on a bunch of Dracs!”

“I don’t care. If you teach her how to fucking shoot, all the blood she spills will be on your hands.” 

“We’re not going to become like BLi-“

Poison slams their fist on the table, startling the others. There’s a fire in their eyes, raging and bright like an inferno. “Teaching a child how to kill is the first step to becoming just like the enemy.”

Poison sucks a deep breath. “You’re right. I don’t care about the Girl. So you know what? Do whatever the hell you want. But I fucking warned you.”

Poison pushes past Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul. They slip out of the diner, and Jet Star doesn’t hear the sound of an engine roar to life. 

(In the end, Jet changes his mind, and it becomes three to one against teaching the Girl how to shoot. They keep blood off her hands, for now. There’s something haunting and personal in the way Party Poison argues their case.)

-

A few weeks later, and it’s the day before the craziest event in Jet Star’s life. Kobra Kid and him are preparing to go on a raid at a warehouse. It shouldn’t take too long, and Show Pony’s already given them all the details to get in and out, so Jet isn’t too worried. BLi always relies on the idea that people just don’t have the balls to try and raid any of their facilities, and they’re usually right.

They’re leaving Fun Ghoul and Party Poison behind. Poison broke a leg in a huge brawl that happened last week, and Fun Ghoul’s wrist got fucked up when some of his bombs detonated a bit too soon. They get to stay behind and watch the Girl, which isn’t really an ideal situation for anyone.

Ghoul loves the Girl, yes, but he also has the emotional maturity of a twelve year old. Poison and the Girl get along better than Poison can with anyone else. Jet just hopes those assholes don’t destroy the diner while they’re out and they’ll call it a success.

“Don’t worry, baby, we’ll be back soon.” Jet pats the Girl’s head as she watches Kobra pack some of Ghoul’s bombs.

Ghoul punches Jet’s arm. “Don’t do anything stupid, man.”

“Obviously. We’re not you.”

Ghoul punches his arm, harder. “Oh, fuck off.”

Jet doesn’t expect a goodbye from Poison. They never give one. He’s honestly surprised they’re not holed away in their bedroom, and that they’re laying on the booth next to the door, next to them. He hasn’t heard a word from them, but this is a step up from where they used to be.

The Girl clutches Jet Star’s leg, tightly. “Are you sure that you have to go?”

“You shouldn’t go,” Poison states, absently. And that catches his attention, because Poison never cared about other people’s missions. It almost makes Jet Star doubt whether they should go, until Ghoul pipes up.

“Well, they wouldn’t have to if you didn’t spend all those fucking carbons.” Ghoul rolls his eyes. “If you stopped spending shit on booze we wouldn’t have to go on so many fucking raids.”

Poison sits up from their seat, watching Jet Star and Ghoul with an odd expression. They don’t bother defending themself. No matter how many times Jet tries to hide their carbons, Poison always manages to fucking find them.

“You should wait a couple more days,” Poison states.

“We can’t. This is the window where there’s no Dracs around due to a shift rotation.” Jet Star watches them right back. “Do you know something?”

Poison lays back down. “Have fun getting shot at.” They close their eyes.

Jet frowns, but he leaves it at that. Ghoul kicks Poison’s leg. “Asshole!”

Still, Jet and Kobra leave without much fanfare.

-

They raid the warehouse. It’s a fatal mistake.

They managed to sneak in pretty easily, until an unaccountable factor fucked everything up: exterminator Korse was there to make an impromptu inspection of the facility. 

And of course, Korse fucking caught them, because all the information about scheduales and such Pony gave them became completely useless.

Korse chases them out of the warehouse and they carry everything they could to the trans am. A huge firefight took place as Dracs left their stations to aid the exterminator, and they quickly became swamped. Lasers fly through the air and it becomes impossible to dodge them. Jet gets skewered by them more than once as the two try to escape.

They manage to slip inside the trans am and a chase begins. Jet doesn’t care where he’s driving to, he just fucking drives. The engine threatens to burst into flames as he slams the accelerator, and the speedometer nearly shatters as they try to outrun the law.

They manage to shake Korse and the other Dracs off their tails, but things still manage to go to shit. As Jet tries to figure out where the hell they are so they can get home, the engine completely quits. They’re out of gas, and he sees something smoking from the engines. 

They get stranded in the middle of the desert, wounded as fuck. They weren’t able to grab medical supplies, and there’s not much in the trans am, but they did manage to scrape up some food. They won’t starve to death, thankfully.

Both of their radios got busted in the firefight, and neither of them have the tools to fix it. They don’t want to stray too far from the trans am, in case they manage to miraculously get it running and because it acts as a good shelter. So, they’re sort of stuck.

It’s not… so bad.

-

Alright, it fucking sucks.

They’re both trying to stay cheerful, but it’s not really working. They have enough food, but they’re starting to run out of water. They’ve definitely begun to lose all sense of time, but Kobra’s been faithfully drawing tally marks of each day that passes.

“If we get captured,” Kobra begins, “What do you think they’ll do with us?”

“That’s fucking morbid,” Jet says, “but do you mean like all of us?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, try.”

“Well, Ghoul and I are desert born. BLi fucking hates us, so we’d definitely be executed. I’m guessing they’re not gonna waste free bodies, though, so I think they’ll Drac us or something.” Jet won’t lie, he’s thought about this scenario a couple of times. “I’m not really sure about you. You’ve been gone from the city for so long, they might just kill you off too. But I think they’ll just re-educate you and turn you back into a normal civilian.”

“And Party Poison?”

Jet sighs. “That’s a coin toss. BLi thinks of them as the face of the revolution. Whatever they do with them has to be very, very meaningful. It has to be something big and it has to send a message. If they catch us alive, I don’t think they’re just going to kill off Party Poison, like me and Ghoul. And I don’t think they’ll just make them a civilian like you.” Jet’s also thought about this a couple of times. “They’ll definitely re-educate them, bleach them. But I think they’ll also Drac them or something. Turn the symbol of rebellion into some machine that kills off rebels.”

Kobra remains quiet. They don’t say much after that. 

“Do you believe in an afterlife?” Kobra whispers.

“I hope there is. I’m so sick of all this shit, I want there to be something to look forward to when I finally keel over.”

“Party Poison would sneak out to the Lobby all the time, when we were kids. I never came with, because I was too drugged up to break any rules. And Poison always came back with tales about the Phoenix Witch. They were a pretty avid believer in Her. I never cared much for the story, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder.”

“They don’t believe in Her anymore.”

“No.”

“I wonder why.”

“Maybe they saw something they didn’t like.” Kobra hums. “Theoretically, if the Witch did exist. Maybe She did something and Poison thinks She’s shitty for it.”

“Or maybe they’re tired of chasing fairytales.”

“Do you believe in the Witch? You’re desert born.”

Jet thinks about the time he watches Poison rise from the dead. He thinks about all the crow feathers stuck to their hair, thinks about all the stories people tell of the Witch rebounding souls that are too important to be wasted.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if there’s one thing to take comfort in, it’s that we’ll all end up in hell together.”

Jet thinks about what his mothers taught him. “Ha, definitely.”

-

Second week in, and Jet gets a gnarly infection. The blaster wound on his thigh seems to have been a lot deeper than they anticipated. It’s turned some pretty ugly colours, and they don’t have the resources to get rid of it.

Jet Star begins to develop a perpetual ache in his bones. He can feel his temperature rising, and the desert heat definitely isn’t cooling him off. He’s got a fever that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to just wear out.

Kobra Kid tries hard to help him out, and he manages to curb it a bit. But by the third week, Jet‘s swinging in and out of delirium. Their water supplies have been all but drained, and they’re running out of food. 

By the fourth week, Jet can’t even get out of the car.

He feels himself drifting, drifting, drifting…

(Someone starts screaming. Jet Star’s too tired to care.)

-

_Party Poison stands before them, appearing exactly as he remembered they did in their first meeting- dressed in funeral black with ghoulishly white hair and skin._

_“Where am I?” Jet asks, because it’s the first thing on his mind. He doesn’t remember seeing the light at the end of the tunnel._

_“Where would you like to be?”_

_“Where can I go?”_

_“Wherever you’d like.” Party Poison hums. There’s feathers swirling in the air around them. They’re in the desert, Jet realises. His surroundings are finally blurring into focus. The sun beats overhead, making an odd halo cast around Poison’s head. The feathers clumped in their hair gleam in the golden light. “Somewhere peaceful, where your friends have been waiting for you at.”_

_They glance behind Jet Star. He hears a faint yelling, and he turns towards the source. Kobra Kid is buried deep in the back of the trans am, screaming incoherently._

_“Or maybe you can stay with your other friends. The choice is yours.”_

_“Is there a choice?”_

_“There’s always a choice.”_

_“Did you have one?”_

_Poison’s teeth shine as their lips curl into a sharp toothed smile. Jet stares them dead in the eye and finds himself being licked by the tendrils of a fire. “No.”_

_Jet blinks. “Then is it really a choice?”_

_“There is, for people like you.” Poison tilts their head like a curious crow. “So what do you want to do, little Star?”_

_“I guess I’ll go back to Kobra.”_

_Poison smiles. It’s less sharp this time, less weirdly malicious._

_They offer their hand. “Time to wake up.”_

_Jet Star takes it._

-

The first thing Jet Star registers is red.

Party Poison smiles down at him, their hair glowing in the sun's rays. Jet Star’s laying on the ground outside of the car. He doesn’t know how he got there.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Poison hums. 

Jet can hear crying next to him. Kobra has his head buried in Ghoul’s shoulders. It’s surreal to watch because he’s pretty sure they’re mourning him.

Poison offers a hand. If Jet squints, he thinks he can see a few feathers sticking out of their hair. “Come.”

He takes their hand.

-

They’re gathered in the diner. Kobra sits right next to Jet, nearly squishing him against the window. Ghoul sits across from him, staring at Jet Star like he’s too nervous to look away.

Party Poison is picking up the Girl from Newsagogo and Hot Chimp, and they’re going to snag some medication from Dr. D.

Jet’s still trying to get the whole story. “How the hell did you guys find us?”

“Poison said someone called the radio. A kid saw the trans am broken down off of Route Guano. We left the kid with Newsie and then we took Kobra’s bike and headed right for you guys.” Ghoul bit his nail. “God, Jet. We thought you guys were both fucking dead for a whole month. And then we found you and we thought you had fucking died.”

Jet remains quiet. Kobra Kid keeps a hand on Jet Star’s leg, like he’s terrified to let go. It’s different, he supposes, from all the other times they almost died because this wouldn’t have been from a firefight. This was a different existential dread to feel, a different mortality to grapple with. 

“I really thought you died,” Kobra whispers.

“Yeah? Me too.” Jet rubs his forehead. “Are you and Poison and the Girl okay, though? Did anything else happen?”

Ghoul cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah, we were fine. Obviously devastated by you guys going off the radar. Cried a bit over that, but nothing huge happened.”

“You and Poison cried?”

“Ha!” Ghoul throws his head back so far he slams it against the booth. “Poison? Show any feelings other than rage? No. Just me and Girlie.”

“Oh.”

“Can Poison even cry?” Kobra hums, absently. “They’ve got a shit ton of scarring around their eyes. Maybe their tear ducts got fucked up.”

“Maybe they’re just too fucking heartless to be able to. They’re barely even human, anyway.”

Jet really doesn’t like this topic. “Man, I’ve missed you guys.”

-

A few months after the Route Guano incident, as they’ve taken to calling it, the desert consensus over Party Poison suddenly stutters. 

It’s all because of one accident.

The door to the diner slams open, then shut one night. That immediately alerts Jet Star, and he notices Poison’s bed was empty. It almost always was. But usually, when Party Poison came back from their nights of partying away at various clubs, they do have the common courtesy to stay quiet as they sneak back inside. 

He slips down the hallway. Nobody else is cracking their door open, so they’re all either still asleep or they’re uncaring. Kobra Kid sleeps like a rock, and Fun Ghoul’s been trying to catch up on some lost sleep after marathoning shitty movies with Show Pony. The Girl might be too scared to check the noise, or she might just think it was Ghoul getting up to piss (he’s so fucking obnoxiously loud when he does so).

Party Poison has their back plastered to the wall. They’re slowly sliding down until they manage to collapse to their knees, and from the way they’re blocking the door, they almost look like they were being chased. 

Jet Star takes a moment before deciding to engage. Party Poison doesn’t like talking about the nights they spend out of the diner, and Jet’s long resigned himself to the fact that he’ll never figure out what they get up to other than drinking and partying and picking fights.

But there they are, sitting on the floor, with this haunted, terrified expression. Their make up is completely smeared, and all of the lipstick stains on cheeks have been overshadowed by the blooming bruises. Their nose is bleeding, staining their painted lips a second layer of colour. Their clothes are in a strange disarray, and he can make out a couple of bloody fingerprints and smears on their pants. They definitely just got out of a fight.

“Party Poison?” He whispers the name, not wanting to startle them.

They jolt, immediately tilting their head towards Jet. There’s a blazing fire in their eyes, and their hair glows in the soft moonlight. They don’t bother getting back up or pretending that Jet Star didn’t just watch them collapse to the ground.

“I fucked up,” they whisper, equally soft.

That sends an icicle through Jet Star’s heart. Poison never admits they’re wrong, never admits they made a bad move. 

“What happened?”

“Oh, just listen in to Newsagogo’s report tomorrow. You’ll hear all about it.” Poison buried their head in their palms. “I fucked up, really, really badly.”

“We can talk about it,” Jet begins, and hesitantly begins to sit next to them. He reaches out, trying to put a reassuring hand in their shoulder, and Poison flinches away.

“Stay back,” Poison hisses, sounding every bit as venomous as their name implies. They stagger to their feet. Jet Star notices their pants are unbuckled. “Stay the fuck away from me.”

Jet blinks, then retracts his hand. “Hey, it’s okay-“

“No- I need- need to-“ 

It’s weird, listening to them trip over their words. They’re always so self confident, so surly and egotistical and condescending, and every syllable is laced with a vigorous disregard for anyone’s thoughts. But now they sound like a scared child, a child who is terrified of the punishment for their actions.

Poison opens the door. “I need to leave.”

“Poison, what happened?”

Poison falters. They stare at him for a moment, appearing almost as pale as they did when they first met. The shadows that blanket their face don’t cover the terrified look in their eye. “I fucked up.”

They slam the door shut. Jet Star immediately opens it, but he can hear the roar of Kobra Kid’s motorcycle spring to life. There’s no point in chasing after them, but the urge to run and catch them is pretty strong.

Jet Star watches as the dust settles in the wake of Party Poison’s flee.

-

Jet Star sits right next to the radio the whole morning. He doesn’t really get much sleep that night, and instead spends it in the diner waiting. He’s not sure what for.

He made sure to set the radio to Newsagogo’s station. ABBA plays dreamily as everyone else sluggishly wakes up. The Girl is the first one, bouncing out of her shared room with Ghoul and Kobra. She settles into the seat right across from Jet Star and begins to work on a picture she’s drawing for her mom.

Fun Ghoul follows after. He seems dead on his feet, and he plops down next to Jet Star with little awareness. Kobra Kid saunters towards them more than an hour later, already munching on some cereal he stole from the kitchen. It feels so domestic, so calm in comparison to the vibrant fear in Poison’s eyes just a couple of hours ago.

When _Fernando_ cuts off, Newsagogo’s voice fills the airways. 

“We’ve got pretty urgent news here, right from Bullets. Early this morning, two people were killed in a knife fight right on my dance floor! In the haze of the disco lights and the thrum of the bass, Demolition Row and Cinderella of the Riot Squad were stabbed to death by none other than Party Poison, the infamous fiery leader of the Fab Four. The rest of the remaining Riot Squad members report that Party Poison picked a fight with the two while they were inebriated, and their altercation quickly turned fatal.”

The diners mood quickly faded into something solemn. Kobra Kid discarded his cereal box, Ghoul seemed acutely awake, the Girl dropped her crayons, and Jet Star held his head in his hands.

“The story is that Party Poison killed two other killjoys unprovoked. Though we don’t have Party Poison’s side of the story, it does sound a bit in character. In any case, that’s our latest news! Let’s get back to our ABBA marathon! Hot Chimp, take it away!”

Ghoul slams his fist on the table. “I can’t believe that bastard! But also, I totally can?”

“I don’t know,” Kobra begins, quiet. “Party Poison likes to pick fights, yes, but killing another killjoy? I don’t know.”

“You’ve seen them. They’re bloodthirsty as hell! I wouldn’t put murder past them.”

Jet Star’s stomach is tied in a knot. They murder Dracs every day. He knows the difference is supposed to be that the Fracs are bad and the killjoys are good, but the desert isn’t all black and white. “Party Poison likes fights, and they pick them all the time, but they’re never killed anyone no matter how drunk or angry they were. There’s something we’re missing.”

“I doubt it.” Ghoul steals Kobra Kid’s cereal box, who doesn’t bother trying to get it back. “Besides, if Party Poison wasn’t guilty, then where the hell are they? Probably running away like a coward.”

Jet thinks about the blood stains on Poison’s clothes. They definitely killed the two people, he’s sure. But why?

Jet sighed. “Guess we’ll just have to wait for the whole story until Poison comes back.”

-

Jet Star doesn’t see Party Poison for three whole days. The desert is up in arms about them, completely torn between trusting in their supposed savior and completely telling them off. Hate runs through the veins of many people sleepwalking through the desert, and it rather annoys Jet.

People aren’t happy. The Riot Squads are ramping up the tragedy of this story, milking it for all its worth. It’s making Jet Star pretty suspicious over their supposed innocence, but it does sway the desert into moving against Party Poison.

It’s all so hypocritical. Jet Star hates that they would worship Party Poison, but to turn their backs so quickly when they don’t even know the full story? 

Jet Star hates Party Poison because he knows them. And he knows something is fucked up about this entire situation.

-

Jet Star is awake the night Poison decides to slip back home. He’s sitting in the diner, absently searching the sky for the stars. They’ve been slowly disappearing- the sky was never perfectly clear in his lifetime, but now the pollution over the course of his nearly twenty seven years of living has eventually managed to dim even dim of the brightest of stars.

The door creaks open, slowly, Jet Star keeps a hand by his gun, but he has a feeling he knows who it is.

Poison slips inside. They look even worse than when Jet last saw them. There’s a huge stain of blood on their side, they’re bleeding a bit from their head, and there’s a couple new bruises on their face. 

“You want me to fix you up?” Jet decides on, eying the huge stain on their ribs. Poison blinks, and the two stare at each other for a moment. 

“I’m fine,” they settle on. “I don’t need your help. I can do it.”

“I know. But you don’t have to.”

Poison swallows, thickly. They glance at the kitchen, and they don’t say another word. Jet Star’s gotten good at reading their nonverbal cues, he likes to think, so he moves out of the booth and towards the kitchen. Silently, Party Poison follows.

Jet Star pulls down their makeshift first aid kit. Poison plops down on a stool, like a sack of potatoes. Jet Star brings over the bandages and a bit of weak alcohol. Hesitantly, he reaches out for their shirt. They jerk back, smacking against the table they were leaning on.

“I wanna treat your ribs. You’re going to have to take your shirt off.” It’s best to let them do it. Poison stares at Jet Star’s hands, then slowly begins to take the fabric off. “Thanks.”

He rubs a bit of the alcohol. Poison doesn’t even wince. He rubs away at the caking blood and tries to clean it up as best he can. It’s going to need to be stitched, that’s for sure. 

They sit in silence as Jet begins to thread the needle. “It’s gonna need stitches,” he warns. Poison doesn’t flinch when he starts to lace up their skin, either. There’s a lot of things he wants to say, and he’s completely uncertain over how to begin. “You know, the public isn’t very happy with whatever happened. They’re painting you a villain.”

“Of course.” Jet Star snips the needle and ties the knot. “Of course.”

“What happened?”

“You already know,” Poison sneered. There’s a bizarre edge to their voice, something malicious. “Everyone knows.”

“I want your side.”

That makes Poison pause. They get off the stool, moving away from Jet right as he was about to try and fix some of the other injuries. Blood is still dripping down their face as they cross their arms and stare down Jet.

“I killed two people in cold blood. I killed two of our allies. That’s the story.”

“That’s what they say. That’s what the desert people think. Is that what really happened?”

Poison huffs. “Does it matter?”

“The truth is always important. Even if it only resonates with the few instead of the many.”

“I killed two people.”

“Why?”

“Because- because-“ They’re stumbling now. They’re cracking. “That’s what I am. That’s what I do.”

“That’s what everyone else says. Everyone in the desert believes you to be nothing but a violent, heartless murderer. They think all you can do is destroy.” Jet isn’t sure if he’s saying the right things, but he needs to push Poison, he needs to see how they’ll react. “Is that who you are? A destroyer?”

“I don’t know what to do other than destroy!” Party Poison screams, a fire burning within them as they throw up their hands. “Everyone hails me as the fires of the revolution, as the flame to spark an uprising! But everyone gets scared and angry when I start burning!”

Party Poison spins on their heel, practically frothing. “They can’t hail me for my nature and then spit on me when I start destroying them too! We kill Dracs every day and they cheer me for that! They cheer for my murdering when it corresponds to what they think is right! But those Dracs could still be people! We’re still killing people! But that’s okay, because they’re bad guys! Well, maybe not all killjoys are good guys!”

They slam their hand on the counter next to them. Jet can feel the embers of their rage threaten to swallow him, can feel the hot waves of a burning fire nearly suffocate him. “They worship me! They put me on a pedestal! They called me perfect! I don’t want to be perfect! I don’t want to be what BLi always tries to make me to be! These people are just like BLi! I can’t make a mistake, I can’t be me! I can’t be what I am! I can’t be the fires of a revolution because once I start burning everything in my way they scream at me! What do they want! What do they want?”

Their last cry turns into a choking whisper. They slip to the ground, grabbing their hair and furiously pulling. They’re not crying, but they look so dangerously close. “I can’t be their messiah! I can’t be their hero! I can’t be what they want me to be! I’m not the hero!”

A silence sweeps across the diner. In the distance, Jet can hear the sober songs of a few crows. Poison’s breathing is the only other sound, haggard and laborious. 

“I can’t bring peace,” they whisper, “I can only bring war.”

Jet Star slips next to them. Slowly, hesitantly, he wraps an arm around their shoulder and pulls them close to him. They have the option to break away at any time, he’s not trying to smother them or make them uncomfortable. And for the first time since Jet Star’s known them, they don’t immediately jerk away from his touch. They bury their face in his shoulders and they make the most god awful sounds. Tears don’t stain Jet’s shirt, but he can hear their wails and knows that they’re still crying all the same.

“I didn’t mean to do it,” Poison whispers. “I didn’t mean to kill them. I didn’t mean to kill any of them. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t want to, not now, not ever.”

There’s something about the way they’re speaking that makes Jet wonder if they’re still talking about the two killjoys they just killed. He rubs circles into their back, trying to offer as much comfort to them as he can manage. It is odd, to offer comfort to someone you know has killed two people, who’s violent and was someone you considered to be a monster for so long.

“What happened?” Jet Star whispers. 

“They came to me. I didn’t pick the fight this time. They started it. It was self defense.” Poison sucks in a deep breath. “They called me names and shit, called me a pornodroid and shit, called me a ‘thing’. I’m not a thing, I’m not, and I told them to stop, to leave, and they wouldn’t stop harassing me and calling me a “pretty thing” and then they grabbed me and I just- I just started stabbing.” Poison grips Jet’s shirt, tightly. “I don’t know. They kept calling me a thing. I’m not a thing. I’m not an object. It just… they grabbed me, and I just…”

“It was self defense.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Jet Star thinks about their disarrayed appearance when he saw them right after the fight. Their unbuckled pants, their wrinkled clothing, the blood stains on their jeans. “Did they…” He can't say the word. He can’t even think about it. “We’re they trying to…”

“They tried.” Poison keeps their head pressed against his shoulder blade, unwilling to meet Jet Star’s gaze. “And then I shot them.”

“You’re in the right, you know.”

“Yes, yes. Of course, but I just. Killjoys have to be good. Every one of them’s all good. Can’t people see, can’t they see not everyone is good just because we hate the same person? Can’t they see not all the good guys are good and the bad guys are bad? Can’t they see?”

“Not always.”

“Just because I’ve killed- I’m not, not a weapon. Just because I’m something grey doesn’t make me evil.”

“You’re not a thing.”

Party Poison snaps their head up. They make eye contact, and Jet feels the full force of their gaze. “Right.”

“You did something right. We don’t need people like that to sully up the names of a killjoy.”

“But I can? A murderer?”

“You’re not a hero, you’re not a saint. You’re just trying to do what’s right. That has to count for something.”

Poison rubs their nose. “Right.”

Jet Star quietly gets back up. He offers Party Poison his hand. “Let’s finish patching you up. Come on.”

Poison takes his hand.

-

The desert eventually goes back to supporting Party Poison. They’ve become so attached to this idea, not to the person, that they decide to disregard the murder. It just fades away as the desert begins to go back to supporting the face of the revolution they don’t actually want a true part of.

They whisper songs of their infamy, they continue to regard them as infallible. They still believe them to be the messiah they always dreamed of, the person who will save them all without making them do a thing.

They don’t realise how human Party Poison is. They don’t realise that they’re no saint, no mystical angel sent from the Witch to liberate them all. They don’t realise that Party Poison is just a child who has seen some horrors and has been trying to survive.

But there is something distinctly alluring about them, something vaguely magical. The way they sing those siren songs that manage to catch the attention of everyone in the desert, their impeccable fighting abilities, and their knack for showing up at just the right time and their odd knowledge of things they probably shouldn’t know. 

Everytime people whisper over their magic, over how they’re blessed by the Witch, Jet Star can’t help but to think of the outfit they first appeared in, so akin to that of the spirits who reside in the Black Parade, lead by the Witch’s sister, Mother War. Their bloodlust, their carnage.

He thinks of the time he nearly died in the desert with Kobra Kid. The image of Party Poison speaking to him in an out of body experience. The crow feathers stuck to their body, the way Poison managed to miraculously find them minutes later. The way they knew the raid on that warehouse would go wrong.

Party Poison is just a child, lost in this big world. They’re just a human child.

He thinks about the names of those whose names have been long forgotten despite his mothers’ best attempts at preserving their memories and he marvels at how they must have been children once, too. All those prophets and saints- they were human. They had been children at some point.

Party Poison is unfailingly human. But, wasn’t Joan of Arc and the prophet Elijah and Mother Mary? 

Party Poison is no saint. They are no Joan of Arc, no martyr. They are not Elijah, no prophet of holiness. And they are no Mary, no wonderous soul. They are no saint nor messiah nor hero.

But Jet would lie if he said he didn’t think there was something ever so off with them.

-

Party Poison is selfish. They are self absorbed and only care about their own survival. It’s a fact Jet’s become accustomed too, because Party Poison refuses to change, refuses to become anything but what they are. Those were the facts. Those were truths Jet Star knew ever since he met that scraggly fifteen year old ghost in their funeral attire and a ghoulish complexion. 

But the more Jet looks, the more that fact seems to... not be quite right.

Jet watches as their food supply dwindles through the entire desert as a false famine begins to be administered by BLi. Food production nearly halts, and as such, there’s no way for them to raid any supply trucks that pass through the zones.

He watches as the Girl greedily eats everything she can, watches as her growth is stunted from the lacking nutritious, as she becomes consumed with hunger pangs. And Jet Star watches Party Poison pretend that they’re not hungry, pretend to give the Girl their portions time and time again under the guise of not wanting to waste anything. He watches them become thinner and thinner as the Girl gets some colour to her cheeks again.

He sees the way the desert nights become colder than they have in ages. He sees Party Poison shoving blankets upon blankets on Ghoul, who has no tolerance for the cold. He watches Party Poison freeze as they simply give away nearly all the cloth they possess to keep the others warm.

He sees Party Poison constantly trading the things they have to give more to their brother. He watches them at markets, selling some of their most personal items away to buy something else, something for Jet or Ghoul or Kobra and later the Girl. 

Jet Star marvels at how much Party Poison has changed, and how slow their selfish nature has melded into something selfless.

(A different part of him wonders if it is Party Poison who has changed, if they had actually been statically kind this entire time and Jet Star has just slowly developed a new perspective. He can’t tell for certain who has changed.)

-

The worst day of their lives happens when the terror twins are nineteen, Ghoul is eighteen, the girl is nearly seven, and Jet is nearly twenty eight. 

They’ve grappled with Korse before. Many, many times- the man is dedicated to the prospect of destroying the Fab Four after watching them evade him for so many years. His desperation to their destruction might also have to do with his unsettling obsession with Party Poison.

It’s nothing new. They fight like they always have, with the expectation that they’ll all win and Korse will be driven away and everything will end up alright. Because that’s how it always happened- the good guys win and the bad guys flee. It was routine, it was set.

Jet’s anxiety over firefights had even begun to die down. Every firefight they got in they managed to escape alive. His friends were capable, and he was capable of protecting them. It was fine.

No one even thought twice about the fight. No one realises it was any different than all the other times until they were lined up against each other like a row off battling armies from the old war movies Show Pony sometimes managed to scrounge up. Or like cowboys, about to make their stand off when the sun is at its peak and the noon is high.

It isn’t until a Drac shoots him in the head, and he goes sprawling to the ground as all his friends drop like flies beside him, does he realise things have changed.

By that point, everything’s gone black.

-

There’s a searing pain in his head. He opens his eyes, immediately regrets it, and shuts them again. His skull is positively pounding and he feels like he decided to stick sandpaper in his eyes and started to rub. The pain is pulsing, white hot, like he’s being lit on fire from the inside.

He opens the eye that’s in less pain. He needs to be aware of his surroundings, he needs to know what happened. Everything around him is hazy and seems to be tilting, and it takes an immense amount of effort to even open his eye, so he doesn’t dare move from his position.

A crow caws in the distance. There’s a blur of blue on his left. He tries to focus his eye on it, tries to understand if they were friend or foe.

Party Poison.

They’re standing now, blood caking the side of their face. The shot went straight through their head. They should be dead, and yet there they are, standing up in the face of certain destruction. Their hair is glowing in the light of the sun, and they almost appear to have a strange halo cast about their head.

They’re shaking. Horribly so, which is kind of weird. Their hands never shake, not even when they’re afraid or angry or any other time. But now their entire body is shaking, and he can’t tell if it’s from the pain or the rage.

A single shot of a gun rings across the desert. The sounds of electricity buzzing drowns out anything else in the zones.

Jet glances off towards the distance, trying to see what Poison just shot at.

Korse stumbles, his grip on the Girl’s arm tightening as the shot hits him square in the shoulder. The Girl is shrieking, laughing at the man and cursing at him as she gets pushed into a white BLi van, and her screams are suddenly cut off, and oh god, Jet knows what that means: they lost. They lost, they lost the Girl, they _lost_.

Jet Star’s vision swims. Everything blues out of focus, and it takes every last shred of will he can manage to stay conscious. He can’t tell how long it takes for Korse to march his way up to the scattered remains of the Fab Four, but he just knows the next time he opens his eyes, Korse is leering above Party Poison, who has fallen to their knees, their gun discarded next to them.

“Aren’t you tired of playing the hero?” Korse croons. With a fluid ease, he sets his foot against Poison's chest and knocks them flat on their back. Poison weakly rakes their nails against his leg, but Korse just smiles at them. “Are you ready to stop playing pretend?”

“It was never pretend.”

“You never cared about the people you managed to save. You were only in this fight to soothe your need to kill. You’re a weapon, a plastic imitation of a human whose only purpose is to kill.”

Poison spits in his face. Their eyes are absolutely smouldering, their lips cocked in an enraged snark. “You have no rights to tell me what I am. I know what I am. I’m not a thing.”

“Oh, I know what you are.”

The thrum of electricity fills Jet’s ears. He sees Korse pick up Poison’s gun, watches as he charges it up. Jet needs to move, needs to do something. No, he’s not going to remain helpless, he can’t watch this happen. He can’t.

Shots fire. Jet Star tries to scream, but he’s too paralyzed to move even a muscle. Seven consecutive shots ring out. Party Poison’s hands fall to their side, and the smell of burning flesh pervades the thick atmosphere.

Korse blows the top of Poison’s gun. “Dead.”

He laughs and toss their gun to the side, stepping off their chest. “I know the director wanted you alive, but we really should have just killed you while we had a chance. And now’s the chance to be rid of a defunct bomb.”

He glances at Jet Star. No words pass between them- there doesn’t need to be. He just sends him a sharp toothed smile and kicks Jet in the ribs.

Everything goes black after that.

-

_”Where would you like to go?”_

_Jet Star stares at the corpses that litter the ground next to him. Fun Ghoul lays battered on his right, a huge blaster shot in his ribs. Kobra Kid’s arm is laying in an unnatural angle, his neck looking fried. And of course Party Poison, who had blood, gallons of the stuff, leaching into the golden sand and staining it a deep, deep red._

_“Where can I go?”_

_“Anywhere you desire?”_

_Jet Star is tired. He has watched his friends die helplessly as the sole survivor twice, and now possibly a third. He has seen so much carnage and sin and innocence be sullied by the evil that plagues this world, by the corporation that steals and corrupts the souls of anyone who comes in contact. He just wants to rest._

_“Are they all dead?”_

_“I suppose you’ll have to figure that out. If you want to join the rest of your other gangs, you might find them there. Or not.”_

_“Are you dead?”_

_Party Poison smiles. “Are you?”_

_“I… I think so.”_

_“The choice is yours to make. Would you like to stay dead or would you like one last chance?”_

_“Is it a choice?”_

_“Destiny isn’t set in stone for people like you.”_

_“And you?”_

_“I know what I’m meant to do. So what do you choose?”_

_Jet Star watches the others carefully. He has a feeling he doesn’t actually have a choice. Besides, if there’s a chance any of them are still alive, then he can’t abandon them. He won’t let his history repeat. “I guess I should head back to the land of the living.”_

_“Good choice.”_

_Poison offers their hand. Jet Star takes it._

_“Time to wake up.”_

-

“Holy fuck.”

Jet Star wakes up, pain numbing almost every part except for his burning eye. His vision is a bit hazy, but he can see Ghoul leaning down on him, can feel his hands on his shoulders. Ghoul puffs a sigh of relief.

“Kobra! Jet lives!” Ghoul laughs. He glances back at Jet. “Oh, man. You got real fucked up. Can’t believe a Drac tased you in the fucking eye.”

“Tased.”

“Yeah? Weird that they didn’t just kill us.”

“They’re not waking up.”

Kobra’s terror filled voice sent chills down Jet’s spine. He and Ghoul both turned towards Kobra, who was crouched next to his sibling. Jet swallowed at the memory of watching Korse riddle their body with bullets.

Ghoul moved towards Party Poison. “Come on asshole, don’t make Kobra Kid cry.”

Party Poison doesn’t move. Kobra Kid looks close to tears, and Ghoul keeps gently kicking their ribs, keeps prodding them, mumbling explicatives and trying to wake them. Jet reaches out, quietly grabbing their wrist.

Jet feels no pulse, and something cold runs down his spine. They’re dead, they’re completely dead, and this is a corpse they’re holding onto hope with. 

Crows begin to chime in the distance. Jet Star let’s go of Poison’s burning hot skin and closes his eyes for a moment. He prays for the first time in a couple of years, specifically to the Phoenix Witch, but to any other god that will listen. They can’t be dead.

He opens his eyes. Kobra Kid is sitting right on top of their chest, his sleeves rolled up, his hand cocked like he was ready to slap them. The crows stopped chittering as soon as Kobra’s palm hit Poison’s cheek, and Jet watched as Poison’s eyes suddenly snapped open.

“Shit,” Poison whispers. “The Girl.”

They glance around at each other. Jet Star can feel that this is the beginning of the end.

-

Party Poison is a terrible juxtaposition of things Jet Star would never associate with them.

But they are their best medic. Despite all their sharp edges and sand paper words, despite their bloodlust and their thirst for violence, they have the most tender touch, the softest hands. Their hands never shake, never waver, unlike everyone else, which makes them perfect for intense medical procedures and even easy stitches. They don’t faint at the sight of blood like Kobra Kid, they have a gentle touch unlike Ghoul’s harsh yanks and punctures, and they know medical procedures better than even Jet.

Party Poison is the one who takes out Jet Star's eye. It’s an awful procedure for the both of them, and Jet Star is thankful the Girl isn’t there if only so she doesn’t have to hear her scream. Jet’s been shot at, blown up, and punched before- he knows pain. But Jesus Christ, that was the most painful thing he’s ever experienced.

Still, Party Poison remains oddly tender as they do so. They carefully remove his eye with the touch of a feather, and Jet finds himself back on his feet before they know it. His depth perception is fucked up, but he’s getting better.

They all wait for him to get better before they try to make any big plans. They’re waiting for him, for him to figure out how to shoot his gun and how to walk and how to function. They can’t do anything if not all of them are up to standard.

-

While Jet is trying to get a grip on his new adjustments, something awful happens. 

It becomes known desert wide what happened to the Girl, and day after day, people have been pouring in their offers of help. It’s nice to know that maybe the people aren’t quite so doused in yellow. One radio announcement, however, quickly changes that.

They haven’t managed to contact Dr. D yet, still licking their wounds. They’re sitting in the kitchen together, and Jet’s just practicing walking. Kobra and Ghoul are trying to build some bombs, and Party Poison is trying to rewrap some of their bandages from the firefight. 

Dr. D’s station is on, and Mad Gear and The Missile Kid is blaring at a respectable volume. They released a new EP just a month beforehand, and there’s been rumours one of the songs was about the Fab Four.

And then right in the middle of the song, it cuts out. Static drifts into the diner.

“My name is Korse, the Scarecrow that I’m sure you’ve heard stories about. You never could have seen me, otherwise you’d certainly be a corpse,” the voice began simply, with an air of ice and his words dripping with vileness. “I have quite the information to share with you desert rats, information you’ll find particularly important and relevant. Information regarding your little leader, the one with a penchant for red and flamboyancy. Party Poison?”

Everyone turned to look at Party Poison. They kept their eyes on the floor, their hands balled in tight fists.

“Your leader’s been keeping a nasty secret from you,” he continues. “Haven’t you ever wondered where that turbulent fool came from? One day, the rebel just appeared, and did you ever question it?”

“I’ll tell you where your precious messiah came from. Battery City. They came right from the heart, the very center of BLI’s headquarters. They were no ordinary civilian, no bumbling child. Your hero was an exterminator.” A city name drips from Korse’s lips, and the name sent shivers down Jet Star’s spine because he knows that name. Everyone knows that name as the title of the child idol exterminator who left a trail of carnage in their wake as they roamed the desert under Korse’s command. One of the three pets Korse was training.

“You heard me. They were an exterminator. At first, they had been a Drac, but they had been so great at mindlessly killing that they were promoted to becoming an exterminator. If they’d stayed behind a little longer, they would have been promoted into becoming a Scarecrow, just like me. Isn’t that rather interesting?

“Your hero is not a hero. What blood stains their hands? Not the villains of the story. It is not the blood of Dracs that they killed to supposedly protect you. It is the blood of your peers. It is the blood of your brothers and sisters, your friends, family, and lovers. They have killed your people, ruthlessly slaughtered countless desert rats like you, with no remorse nor mercy.

“Do you think they are capable of changing such a nature? A nature filled with carnage and bloodshed? A nature of viewing others as dispensable, viewing human lives meaningless? Do you believe they can change into someone worth listening to?

“Do you believe your leader to be someone other than a weapon against you?

“You’re a fool to think so. They are not your hero. They are your villain. Do you wish to destroy BLI? Do you wish to be rid of those whom you deem as senseless murderers? Do you wish to dispose of me? Then you must destroy them as well in your dreams of justice. So many of your friends and family lay rotting in the sand by their hand. Did you know they have the third highest kill count in the history of BLI?

“I implore you to listen to my words. You may choose not to believe me, but I hope you will not remain blind. If you find my doings unjust, then you must not become a hypocrite and keep your back facing your leader. Because Party Poison won’t hesitate to stab your back as they did to the rest of your friends.

“This is Korse, signing off with one last message. Do not trust a weapon you never loaded.”

It is completely, utterly dead silent. Static clings to the airwaves as Dr. D probably scrambles to get control of his channel. There's a moment where they’re all just processing this information.

“God, does Korse think we’re all that fucking stupid?” Ghoul settles on. His voice is strangely fragile. 

Party Poison remains deathly, deathly silent. They’ve been clutching their palms so tightly their knuckles have turned white and their nails have managed to draw blood.

“It’s not true, right?” Kobra swallows. But Jet knows what he’s thinking, how he’s putting all the pieces they have together.

Their silence is answer enough.

“Come on!” Ghoul finally bursts, waving his arms. “Answer us! Deny it already! Come on!”

Poison slowly rises to their feet. A couple of drops of blood slips from their palm onto the diner floor. They suck in a deep, deep breath and then whisper the two words that turn this situation completely and utterly around. “It’s true.”

Ghoul freezes. Kobra is chewing on his lip. “This can’t- you…”

“I’m a murderer,” Poison admits, their voice soft. It feels as if they’re confessing their sins to the only preacher willing to listen. “It’s all true.”

Ghoul jerks away, almost knocking over Kobra Kid as he moves away from Party Poison. There’s a disgusted look in his eyes, his face turning a shade of red. He’s completely furious. “You- you utter asshole! You’re a spy for BLi aren’t you?! I can’t believe we’ve trusted you! I can’t believe we were friends! I can’t believe this!”

Poison didn’t defend themself. They stood there, listening to Ghoul’s words.

“You’re just like the bastard that killed my parents!” Ghoul screams. “You’re just like the bastards that killed Jet Star’s old crews! You’re just like them! You’re just like Korse!”

Poison recoils at the words. Still, there is no defense mounted.

“You’re a killer!” Ghoul shrieks. He starts to move close to Party Poison again, and Jet can see him forming fists. “You’re a weapon!”

“Don’t call me that,” Poison whispers.

“We trusted you.” It’s like Ghoul’s almost pleading. “We trusted you. You’re a murderer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You got the Girl kidnapped, didn’t you? You’re still in with BLi, aren’t you?! You caused this mess! Because you’re Korse’s little pet?”

“No- no! I’m not like that! I’ve changed- I’m not- I’m not a part of BLi- I’m not-“

Ghoul punches Party Poison. No one intervened as Poison stumbles to the ground. Kobra Kid is completely overwhelmed with shock. Jet Star’s feeling a ball of rage churn in his gut.

“People like you can’t change!” Ghoul seethes. Poison wipes away blood from their face, watching Ghoul with an expression almost akin to fear. “You can't change, not when you’ve killed so many innocent people! You can’t just become a hero! You can’t just stop being evil! Because that’s become a core part of you now! You can’t just stop being a killer!”

“You don’t understand!” Poison begs. There’s so many tears in their eyes. “You don’t understand! You don’t understand!”

“I don’t want to! Get out of here! Get out of here you fucking murderer!”

“Guys, I’m not- I’m not-“

Ghoul draws his blaster. He aims it straight at their forehead. Every cry that threatened to slip through Poison’s lips disappeared. Ghoul’s hand shakes. “Leave, now! Before I regret not putting a bullet through your fucking skull.”

Party Poison begins to move backwards. Their eyes are darting around, frantically trying to get someone on their side. They land on Jet Star. Not a word passes through their lips, not a single sound escapes them.

“Leave.” It’s a command.

For once in their life, Party Poison does as asked of them. They open the diner door, and they disappear into the blinding light of the day.

-

Kobra Kid sucks in a deep breath. “We’re being unfair.”

“Unfair?” Ghoul repeats, absolutely frothing. “Unfair is me letting that bastard live. Unfair is them killing all of our friends.”

“It’s not like they chose to be a Drac. They didn’t choose to become a serial murderer. Come on, you know BLi snatches children from their homes and turns them into Dracs. They bleach them, they wipe their memory and their soul into something nice and white so they can mold them however they want.” Kobra sighs. “Party Poison was brainwashed and conditioned into being a soldier. It’s not the life they chose. It’s not who they wanted to be.”

“So what? That doesn’t excuse the fact that all of my friends are dead because of them. That doesn’t change the fact that they’ve killed so many of our friends and allies! They’re still a serial killer we made the mistake of letting into our lives!”

“But they changed! They’re not still a soldier for BLi! They’re not that person anymore!”

“We don’t know that! We all know it’s extremely difficult for Dracs to break free from BLi’s grip, let alone a fucking exterminator! It’s unheard of for a reason!”

“But they did that! Shouldn’t it count for something! Shouldn’t the fact that they turned against BLi and became a killjoy mean something?”

“It sure doesn’t mean anything to the killjoys that were killed because of them!”

They both turn to Jet Star, who’s been listening to this argument and feeling a migraine form. There’s a pause, and then Kobra asks, “Well? What do we do?”

Jet Star leans his head against the walls “I don’t know.”

“We can’t just kick them out!” Kobra cries. 

“I know.”

“But they killed people! Our friends!”

“I know.”

“But-“

“Just- Just shut up!”

Kobra and Ghoul immediately close their mouths. Jet Star is enraged, and it’s not just because of them but he can’t stop this rage from festering until it finally spilled over. ”I don’t know what the right answer to this is, okay? I just don’t know!”

Jet slumps into a diner booth, holding his head in his hands. “You’re both right, okay? Party Poison was brainwashed, yes, and it really was all out of their control, but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s so many people dead because of them. Yes, they broke free from BLi, but did they ever really stop being BLi’s weapon? I don’t know. I want to think so. I desperately want to think so. But I just don’t know. There’s just not a right answer here.”

The desert is filled to the brim with all sorts of shades of grey. There are no true heroes, no real bad guys. Just those who choose to be evil and those who choose to be good. But where does Party Poison fall into that, where do they fit into the grey of the desert?

Not all killjoys are good people. Jet knows this, he’s watched countless of others tear each other apart with less of a reason than being brainwashed. He’s watched people lie, beg, cheat, steal, and kill over things that don’t even matter. Killjoys are just as capable as terrible things, but they’ve usually never committed such large acts of violence.

“Party Poison’s a fucking prick, anyway. They’re just a selfish maniac who thrives off a mod bloodlust. God, we should have figured it out sooner.” Ghoul flicks the hair out of his eyes. Kobra’s brows furrow.

“Party Poison was trained to be a solider, trained by BLi and their twisted fucking ways. Of course they’re blood thirsty, of course they have a terrible time recognising other people as humans who deserve respect. You heard the way Korse spoke about them, and the way they speak about themself. They barely see themself as human.”

Jet thinks about all the little ways Poison subconsciously talks like that. The way they always used ‘what’ instead of ’who’, or ‘something’ and not ‘someone’. They’re just throw away lines, but Jet remembers the utter contempt Korse used as he called them a weapon. 

“It’s just not fair,” Ghoul finally settles on.

“It’s not.” Jet rubs his head, trying to think of what to do. “It’s not fair for anyone. But we need to focus on the Girl. We need to focus on getting her out of BLi’s clutches.”

“Korse is trying to split us up. He’s trying to split up the desert. We need to work together.” Kobra nods, like he’s trying to convince himself. “We have to all be able to rely on each other, or else this mission is going to fail horribly. We need to get Party Poison back- if they were a part of BLi, they could even help us get in. I’m sure they have a shit ton of information to offer.”

Ghoul rolls his eyes. “If they’re a spy, they’ll lead us all to get slaughtered.”

“They’re not a spy “ Jet Star states. “Korse wouldn’t be so adamant on wanting them dead, and I know that man isn’t acting. But Kobra’s right. I don’t think too many people are going to want to help us. We need all the manpower we can get.”

Ghoul frowns. “We can’t just brush away all the shit they’ve done.”

Jet clenches his jaw. “Trust me, we aren’t. But there’s just nothing we can do about it until we save the Girl. And if we die trying, none of this will even matter.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ghoul sighs. “Let’s find Party Poison.”

-

It’s actually not that hard. Not even an hour after they finish their discussion, Hot Chimp is ringing them up. “Found your kid, Jet. Picking fights like always. Are you gonna pick them up?”

Jet takes in a deep breath. “Yes, thank you.”

“No problem. Oh, and Jet?”

“Yeah?”

“This doesn’t change anything. Newsie and I will still help you .”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Always.”

-

Jet Star picks up Party Poison. They were sitting outside the club, staring off into the night sky. Jet Star offers his hand to them, sprawled out across the club’s steps. “Come on. We need to go.”

“I’m back in the crew?”

“We need to rescue the Girl.” They slip inside the car. “We need all the help we can get. After we save the Girl, we can figure out all of our real feelings later.”

“Of course.”

Poison remains silent after that. They drive for a few miles, Jet clenching the wheel of the car tightly. Conflicting emotions are brewing within him, but he doesn’t say a word.

“I never wanted to be a hero,” they whisper. “I never wanted all of this- I never wanted the desert to think of me as a messiah. I just wanted to be good. I just wanted to try and atone. You told me once that the only way a person could be irredeemable was if they never changed their ways but was conscious about the evil they were doing. I’ve tried so hard to change, Jet. I’m still trying.”

“I know.” And Jet does. Because he can see how much they’ve changed just from the first time they met, when they were a rowdy fifteen year old who wanted to be a good guy but had no idea how. He can see it from how they're trying to give what they can back to the crew, the way they’re trying to give the Girl the love they didn’t know how to give. 

“I’m not a saviour or a messiah or whatever title these people demand of me! It’s not my destiny to save them, it’s not my role!”

The emphasis on their usage of “my” catches Jet’s attention. He wonders if they know for a fact it’s not theirs, and if perchance they know who’s destiny it truly belongs to. Or, is Jet simply pondering too hard over a two letter word?

Party Poison buries their face in their hands. “I just wanted to be good.”

Neither of them says another word as they drive on through the night.

-

Things are still tense between everyone. They're trying to get past all their ideological differences, trying to push aside the anger they all have. It doesn’t completely work, it never will, because there’s too many things left unsaid that they just don’t have time to say.

Two weeks pass, and the entire Fab Four are at the kitchen table. It’s something they only do when they’re strategizing, when they’re planning out a huge mission. And this? This qualifies.

Party Poison smacks a map in the middle of the table. They twirl a red Sharpie and they point to a building right in the center of Battery City. “Show Pony managed to get us some information. They’re holding the Girl right here, in the BLi headquarters. We have the exact location of her cell.”

“Hold up, the headquarters? Like the one where they send killjoys to get re-conditioned and where they make Dracs and all that stuff?” Ghoul asks, wanting to clarify but already knowing the answer. 

“Bingo.”

Kobra puts his head in his palms. “This is suicide.”

“How many guards surround the area?” Jet asks. Maybe their chances aren’t so terrible.

“There’s seven Dracs on the outer wall and one exterminator. Actually within Battery City, surrounding the headquarters, there are three Dracs and an exterminator stationed outside the doors, and inside, there’s about twenty. In the building to the left are Dracs not on a mission- like they’re sleeping quarters and stuff. There’s at least a hundred over there.”

Jet sucks in a deep breath. “Shit.”

“So what you’re saying is that if we miraculously manage to slip past the outerwall and manage to get inside the city, there’s already going to be a swarm of Dracs waiting for us.” Ghoul doesn’t even bother asking it like a question. “We are absolutely going to die.”

“That’s the shift during the night.” There’s a wicked gleam in Party Poison’s eyes. “During the day? There’s three Dracs and one exterminator on the outerwall. Two Dracs and no exterminators guard the doors in the city. Most of the Dracs have been sent on patrols, so the sleeping barracks are relatively empty, so it’s more like fifty Dracs are there.”

“Hold on.” Kobra puts his hand up. “Are you suggesting we break into the facility in broad fucking daylight?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, god,” Ghoul moans.

“It’s the only way for this to work. BLi is expecting us to try and take advantage of the cover night offers us. They’re going to expect us to slink inside when it’s quiet. But that’s absolutely the more dangerous route. If we want even a chance of getting the Girl back, then we have to do this during the day.”

“We’re all going to fucking die,” Ghoul complains. “There is no way any of us are making it out alive.”

“It’s the only option. We don’t have time for a huge undercover operation and there isn’t a lot of people exactly on our side.”

Ghoul doesn’t say it. But the words his expression conveys is enough- _there’s no one in our side because of you._

“Are we sure this is even worth it?” Kobra hesitates, then continued, “I mean, it’s a suicide mission, no joke. Is all four of our lives really worth one little girl?”

“We’re too young to die,” Ghoul states. “We’re too young to die so willingly.”

“I love the Girl,” Kobra quickly explains. “I love her so much, but we’re not even sure this plan will work. We can’t even be promised that our deaths are going to mean anything. Do we want to die for her?”

“You all have so much more life left to live,” Jet begins, tiredly. “The Girl is wonderful. But will our sacrifice even mean anything? You’re all kids, too.”

Party Poison sets the Sharpie on the table. “If you guys don’t want to do this, you don’t have to, obviously. But I’m going, with or without you. And if I die trying, so be it. I’m willing to die for this. For her. But I think we should do this together.”

Party Poison is no martyr.

Yet, they are the first to offer up their flesh for the Girl. They are the first and only to demand that they commit a quadruple suicide for the child.

They don’t wait for a response. They walk out of the kitchen, their back straight as they do so. They have a death wish, Jet Star thinks, or maybe this is the only way they think they can atone.

-

There’s a lot of discussion between the other three. Maybe it’s selfish to not want to die so young- Jet Star feels like a child and he’s so close to turning twenty eighty, and the others are just children about to die for another child. 

But they all make the same decision as Party Poison. They all decide to die.

Jet Star slips up to the roof. There’s barely any stars to look at anymore, but Jet Star finds himself still searching the sky for the dippers and other constellations. He doesn’t find very many.

Party Poison is standing at the very edge again, gazing out at the sandy horizon. He stands next to them, both somber as they watch the colours of the sky flicker and fade. 

“I figured out what I believe in.” Party Poison’s eyes don’t flicker towards him- in fact, there’s barely a sign that they acknowledged his presence. There’s a ghost of a smile twisting their lips. “I don’t believe in god, but I don’t believe in luck.”

“You don’t believe _in_ Her, but you believe in Her existence.” It’s a wisp of smoke.

“Exactly.” The distinction weighs heavily on him, a line that feels important to draw. 

Party Poison smiles at that. “I understand.”

“So what do you believe in? Remember that deal?”

They keep quiet for a few moments, trying to think. “I believe in a god, and I believe She has cursed all of us.”

“Why?”

“Free will is a sham. It’s a lie. They tell us that these gods created us to do whatever we want, but it’s not true. They carved out their little stories for us, and they punish us when we stray too far.”

“Ah.” Jet doesn’t know what to say to that, really. “You’re afraid that destiny is real.”

“I don’t want all of my actions to have been predetermined. I don’t want this rebellion to be of someone else’s design. But it is. We all have a destiny.” Poison glances at Jet Star. “The Girl is important. I know we all think that, but it’s true. She’s important. She has to survive. Are you willing to die for her?”

Jet Star watches them right back. There’s something odd about the way they talk, the way they’re so sure of what they’re saying. He wants to know what they know, what cosmic plan the universe seems to have for the Girl. But he doesn’t ask. “Of course.”

Party Poison turns to face him. Their eyes are glowing from the reflections of the meagre stars that manage to push past the pollution. Their hair glows from the moon’s waning light. The weight of their gaze almost feels too heavy to bear.

In that moment, Party Poison felt so much taller than Jet despite the laughable height difference between them. Party Poison was near Fun Ghoul’s height, though the distinction over who is taller is unfortunately unavailable, as every time they try to find out, Party Poison and Fun Ghoul plunder the diner in search of the tallest heels they can find in order to outdo the other.

It’s that memory that makes Jet Starr almost exactly as intensely as Party Poison. The juxtaposition between the regality and power they hold in this moment in time versus the fact that they hold height competitions with Fun Ghoul catches Jet Star’s attention. There’s something frankly inhuman about his friend, yet there’s such a strong element of humanity within them and it haunts Jet Star to his very core.

“You’re not afraid of dying, are you?” It's a whisper, soft and quiet. Jet Star stares at Party Poison

“No. I guess not.”

“You’re afraid of surviving.”

Jet Star blinks. Party Poison is staring into his soul, their eyes brighter than the solar flares that erupt on the surface of the sun. “You’re afraid of outliving us. You’re afraid that everyone you love is going to leave you behind to join the Phoenix WItch while you’re stuck here in the living realm, cursed to live out a natural life while everyone drops like flies.”

Jet Star looks away. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I think when we take on this mission, it’s going to be exactly as we think it’ll be: a suicide mission for four. The only person standing in the aftermath is going to be the Girl. It just has to be that way.” Poison sighs. 

“Do we have a choice, really?”

Poison gazes at him with an unreadable expression. “You always have a choice.”

“Do you?”

“People like me?”

They turn their eyes towards the moon. A silence passes between them, and Jet Star feels the haunting sense of deja vu crawl down his spine.

“No. I don’t.”

-

Dr Death Defying was not a perfect man. In fact, if someone dared to call him perfect, he would be offended enough to consider running them over with his wheelchair. Jet Star knows well by now the man isn’t a good person, but he still offered up his home to Jet in his time of need, so he supposed he owes him something.

They head towards the radio shack the day before they’re set to raid BLi. They just want to clarify a few details, and maybe say a few good byes.

Dr. D isn’t surprised by their steadfast decision to save the Girl, and he doesn’t even try to deter them. He knows that they’re set on dying, and he knows that he can’t convince them otherwise. He never was able to get Jet Star to get rid of any kid he found.

Besides, if Jet Star is honest, Dr. D likely doesn’t care. He’s probably already writing their obituaries in his head, trying to figure out just how to exploit their deaths. He'll turn their story into that of a tragedy, into something to fuel his little war games against BLi. He’ll shape it however he desires, until it perfectly fits his needs.

Show Pony is mournful when they ask them to be a part of the back up Newsie and Hot Chimp agreed to provide. It’s the only time Jet’s ever seen them so somber, because they know just as well as everyone else that the Fab Four are about to be no more.

Cherri Cola is there. He wishes them luck, but he doesn’t offer a hand to help them with. It’s expected- he’s a pacifist who’s grown so tired of bloodshed. He probably knows it’s a suicide mission, anyway.

They stay the night at the shack, whisper their goodbyes, and they make amends with whatever deity they believe in.

-

Party Poison drives. They usually do, ever since an accident that left Jet with a broken arm for two months. Kobra Kid doesn’t know how to drive anything with more than two wheels, and Ghoul can’t even reach the pedals. 

Party Poison remains stone silent as they drive, their eyes only on the sights before them. Fun Ghoul is shaking their leg against Jet Star’s seat, and Kobra Kid is staring idly out of the window. Mad Gear and the Missile Kid plays on the speakers, one last hurrah before they all die by the mega corporation they swore to destroy.

-

Everyone knows this next part, through Dr. D’s vigorous efforts to preserve the story of the Fab Four. Everyone knows the story of these four kids who risk everything they have to save the Girl. Everyone knows that the heroes die and the bad guys win.

Party Poison leads the way. They know these halls better than anyone and they lead the group on their hunt for the Girl. Dracs quickly try to pick them off, but they manage to stave off the attacks for Party Poison to be able to get the Girl.

Everything quickly turns to shit as they get separated. The Dracs swarm in, Korse lurks on the edges of the fight, and they’re quickly becoming overwhelmed. The Girl is trying desperately to block out the sounds of fighting, the sights of spilled blood, but there’s no way to avoid all the carnage around her.

A shot rings out, and for some reason, it seems louder than the rest. It draws Jet’s attention even though he knows he needs to keep his eyes on his targets. 

Party Poison is sliding down the wall, blood gushing from their neck. Korse is leering above them, blood dripping from his pristine gun, smoke unfurling from the barrel. Poison reaches out, right towards the Girl, and Jet Star reads the last word they’ll ever speak drip from their lips: _“Run.”_

Jet Star takes the advice.

He and Ghoul rush towards the Girl and begin to carry her off. She’s crying now, her eyes latched onto Party Poison’s still form as they try to remove her from the battle scene. They can hear Kobra Kid’s manic shouts and wails as they move farther and farther away, until the screams suddenly cut off and Jet Star looks back in time to watch Kobra Kid get shot five times.

Ghoul locks the glass doors behind Jet and the Girl, whispering a soft and resigned, “Save yourself, I’ll hold them back.” Jet Star doesn’t have time to look back and watch him get shot, watch as his blood splatters against the shattered glass.

Despite having watched all of his friends get brutally murdered, Jet Star is oddly feeling a sense of serenity. He doesn’t feel a terrifying fear that he'll be the only survivor for the third time, he isn’t afraid that he’s going to survive this. He just isn’t afraid.

When Jet Star gets shot and goes sprawling across the trans am’s hood, he doesn’t feel fear. He knows the Girl will survive, will carry out whatever important destiny Party Poison was adamant about, and everything will work itself out.

When his lights begin to fade out, and the sky above begins to wither into something grey, then black, he isn’t afraid.

Jet Star succumbs

-

_When Jet Star finds himself in the land of the dead, he does not see a light at the end of the tunnel. He finds a different light._

_Party Poison stands before him, a hand outstretched. They loom above, their hair like fire, flickering and smouldering in the hazy light. They are dressed in the exact funeral black outfit that Jet Star first met them in. There is a smile perched on their lips, crooked and imperfect._

_“Come,” they beckon._

_Jet Star heeds._

**Author's Note:**

> my autocorrect keeps calling fun ghoul gun ghoul and that fact is KILLING me chxhsjaj
> 
> okay this gets confusing so here’s a vague timeline:  
> \- 1991: Jet Star is born  
> \- 1999: Jet Star watches his parents die  
> \- 2000: poison & kobra are born  
> \- 2001: ghoul is born; the Analog Wars end  
> \- 2001: Tommy Chow Mein & Dr. D escape into the desert as Helium and Analog War veterans  
> \- 2002: the original Killjoys begin to rise in fame  
> \- 2003: Jet Star’s sister dies  
> \- 2004: Jet star finds a new gang  
> \- 2005: the original killjoys all die/disappear  
> -2007: his gang dies  
> -2008: he joins a new gang  
> \- 2009: his new gang dies  
> \- 2011: he (19) meets Kobra kid (11)  
> -2013: he (21) meets Ghoul (12)  
> \- 2015: they run into Party Poison (15)  
> \- very late 2015: they find the girl (2)  
> \- 2019: the girl gets captured, they rescue her, and then they die


End file.
